


Doctor Who and the Dawn of the Daleks

by mary_pseud



Series: Damnatio Memoriae [10]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mad Science, Mad Scientist, Military dictatorship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Serial: s078 Genesis of the Daleks, Skaro, Thousand Year War, Torture, non-con in chapter 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-04-23 11:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 96,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14331324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/mary_pseud
Summary: The Time Lords have sent the Fourth Doctor, Sarah Jane Smith and Harry Sullivan to Skaro, to prevent the creation of the Daleks.  But as they battle Davros, Nyder and the Kaled war machine, another force is at work.  An AU of the events in 'Genesis of the Daleks.'





	1. Arrival on Skaro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor arrives on Skaro with his companions, and finds his way to the Kaled Bunker - with some unexpected assistance.

Sarah Jane Smith was confused.

That, and her feet were stuck in the mud.

When she, the Doctor and Harry Sullivan had left Earth via the transmat beam, she had expected all three of them to materialise back aboard the NERVA beacon, a space station in orbit around Earth. Instead of being on a spaceship, it looked like she was back on the Earth she'd left.

But a dead Earth: the soil scorched, scarred and eroded. What few plants there were looked twisted too. There was a pallid mist oozing over the low hills.

And it stank: it smelled like a chemical waste dump and a burnt breakfast all mixed together.

"Sarah!" The call made Sarah jump (which at least got her feet loose) and she called back, "Is that you Harry?"

It was indeed Harry Sullivan, who seemed to have materialised somewhere above her on the rocky slope where she stood, he came sliding down beside her, looking dreadfully out of place in his blue blazer and slacks, and said "Where the devil are we?"

"I don't know," replied Sarah. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, "Doctor? Doctor?"

But there seemed to be no sign of their travelling companion, the Time Lord known as the Doctor.

"Come on, let's get down to the bottom of this hill before we roll down it." Harry rather unnecessarily took Sarah's elbow, and they began a slipping, scrambling descent down to the bottom.

At the bottom, it was still deathly silent. The dank mist did a very poor job of hiding how unappealing it all looked. Harry shouted this time, "Doctor, can you hear us?"

"Over here Harry!" And out of the mists came the Doctor, his long scarf looped out of the mud and his hat on askew. He looked rather shell-shocked.

"Doctor, where's the NERVA beacon?" asked Sarah. She was used to getting sidetracked while travelling in the Doctor's usual conveyance, the Time And Relative Dimensions In Space (TARDIS), but being diverted via transmat beam was a new one on her.

"Well, I'm afraid we've had a slight change of plans, Sarah. It seems that the Time Lords have a mission for me, and, I am sorry Sarah, they've sent you along with me to Skaro."

"And just what is Skaro?" asked Harry, who was futilely trying to scrape the mud from one shoe loose on the other.

"Skaro is the home planet of the Daleks."

Daleks. Sarah Jane swallowed at the mention of the name. The Doctor continued, unnecessarily at least for Sarah, "The Daleks are one of the most vicious, most domineering species ever created: a fusion of metal and alien that has succeeded in conquering large sections of their home galaxy. And the Time Lords see a future in which they will have become the dominant life form in the Universe."

"Oh no!" Sarah breathed. Harry noted how distressed she looked. Clearly she'd met these Daleks before.

"But the Time Lords have sent me - and you too I'm afraid - back to a point just before the Daleks' creations, to see if they can be tempered, or destroyed."

Sarah interrupted, "Is that possible? Could the Daleks be destroyed forever if we can stop them now?"

The Doctor shrugged and resettled his hat on his mop of brown curls. "We have to try, at least. This ring," and he showed them a heavy copper bracelet around one wrist, "is our lifeline, it will take us back to the TARDIS when we are done."

Harry chimed in, "If these Daleks as bad as you say Doctor, it'll be a pleasure to take them out."

The Doctor beamed. "Good man, Harry! Now, let's see if we can find someone to talk to. Daleks aren't built on a battlefield, you know."

As the trio started across the uneven terrain, Sarah asked "A battlefield? How do you know it's a..." She stopped at a rising whine that came from overhead.

"Incoming shell! Get DOWN!" shouted the Doctor, and all three of them scrambled into the nearest shell hole. There was a BOOM! and dirt and stones rained down on the three of them. The shells were landing around them like thunder, and Sarah couldn't even hear herself scream as she covered her ears, desperate to blot out the painful level of sound bombarding her.

Then the shelling stopped, and there was deathly silence. Ears still ringing, Sarah sat up - and came face-to-face with a stranger pointing a gun at her!

She froze, and it was Harry who moved past her, touched the immobile man at the other side of the shell hole, and then said as the soldier rolled limply away, "There's nothing I can do for this one."

The man was a soldier apparently, clad in a gas mask and clutching a futuristic-looking rifle. But he also was carrying a wicked-looking knife and a pistol that wouldn't have been out of place in Earth's World War I. While Sarah stood back a step, Harry and the Doctor leaned over the body, examining it.

"Skaro is a world at war for the last thousand years, according to the Time Lords. They've brought themselves and their civilization to the brink of extinction. A radiation detector and synthetic boots, with a uniform made of animals skins. What a mix!"

"Like a caveman with a transistor radio," said Sarah, as they all climbed out of the shell hole and started picking their way through the mud.

"Playing - UGH!" Harry winced and covered his nose, and the Doctor and Sarah Jane did the same: all three of them had been assaulted by a hideous burning stench, bad enough to make their eyes water.

"Gas!" said Sarah.

"What?" coughed the Doctor.

"Gas, is it poison gas?" she said, wide-eyed and with both hands over her mouth.

The Doctor breathed in deeply through his nose (Sarah Jane winced) and then said, "No it's...it's that."

That was a metal canister, sitting halfway out of the mud a few yards ahead of them. It was splashed with lurid green paint all over it and the ground surrounding it, and the hideous stench did come from there, it seemed.

"A stink bomb?" said Harry incredulously.

"A land mine. Harry, Sarah, watch your step, we're in a mine field. It looks like one side or the other has been marking the mines rather than decommissioning them, but it doesn't mean they got them all. We'd best tread carefully."

As the Doctor and his companions moved away through the fog, they were unaware that they were being observed from the top of the hill by a grey-clad figure.

* * *

They had been travelling for perhaps an hour towards the giant white dome they had spotted in the distance when they came across the smashed remains of some sort of vehicle. Probably a tank of some sort. It was beyond smashed actually: bits of it were strewn over the landscape for yards around, and Harry had a few sharp words about the dangers of tetanus. As they came to the far side of it, though, the Doctor paused and said, "Look - there and there."

Drag marks, or ragged wheel marks, circled around and beside the war machine and then blended together, in one direction: towards the Dome.

The Doctor beamed. "Well now, that looks promising! We-"

He was interrupted by a bullet that went WHAP! against the metal frame beside him. Harry hit the dirt behind the wrecked tank; the Doctor and Sarah quickly joined him.

"Where – " as more bullets sang over their heads, "there!" The Doctor gestured, careful not to get his hand out from the meagre shelter, toward the high ridge overhead.

Harry said, "What are we going to do, Doctor?" Then he raised his head, as if listening. He gestured 'shush' with finger to lips, and they all listened.

More bullets whizzed by, but rising above them was a high, eerie wailing, also seeming to come from the top of the cliff.

Eyiyiyiyiii…and shouting…

At the top of the cliff was a desperate man, shouting, cursing, shooting his precious store of bullets as fast as he could load them at the soldiers around him. Left and right, they came popping and ducking around boulders, and he never could tell if he had hit one or not. Their gas masks, flecked with paint in barbaric patterns, seemed to leer at him in his confusion and exhaustion. He was trapped against the cliff edge, surrounded. The teeth rattling wail they gave out was enough to drive a man to madness.

Eyiyiyiyi…

Eyiyiyiyi …

The sniper turned – and fired directly into the soldier reaching for him from behind! Then a dart plunged into his arm. He pawed at the dart weakly, staggered backwards towards the cliff edge - and was caught by hands that gently laid him down in the mud, unconscious.

The wailing cry crested, and then stopped as though cut off.

The soldiers who had taken down the sniper did not celebrate; instead they immediately hit the dirt and started scanning in all directions. Those who had binoculars or monoculars used them.

"All clear this side," reported one of them, voice muffled by the gas mask.

The rest reported the same. One soldier crawled over to the sniper, carefully pulled the dart free, and rolled his head to one side; his eyelids fluttered and then he lapsed back into unconsciousness. If he had managed to stay awake, he would have been shocked and revolted to see the soldier's gas mask removed to reveal a woman's face, with a wisp of long black hair showing from under a knit cap.

"Take him back for medical attention. If necessary, use the discreet entrance," the woman directed, tucking her hair back into hiding. She elbow-crawled over to her dead fellow soldier, and checked for a heartbeat. "Gone." She looked around, mentally calculated how many people she had and how much they could carry while remaining concealed. "We have limited resources. Infuse and take the head with us, and conceal the body for later retrieval." She touched the body, held one limp hand in her own. Softly, she said, "I am sorry, sister."

Then she lay down at the edge of the cliff, scanning the ground below with her binoculars, looking to see what prey had lured the sniper out of hiding. She moved the glasses slowly, pausing frequently, and stopped at the sight of a tall curly-haired man peering out from behind a ruined tank. When the man was joined by two other figures in completely non-military attire, she hissed through her teeth in what might have been satisfaction - or possibly anger.

Beside her, another gas-masked figure said, "The targets?"

"Send a message to the Dome. Tell them - incoming."

* * *

Getting across the battlefield was a nightmare: a very smelly and dangerous nightmare. The only relief the travellers had was in following the narrow rutted path, as it seemed to avoid the mines, trenches filled with fuming liquid, and barbed wire. Here and there they came across the searing green colour and horrible stench of the land mine markings; sometimes there were streaks or X's on the ground in the stuff, like a barrier across one trail or another. They avoided the routes blocked off in this fashion. Far too often, they passed the sadly huddled figures of the dead, abandoned in the growing dark.

The narrow rutted path eventually faded out, but they followed what looked like the most likely direction through a maze of half-collapsed trenches and came at last to the battered remains of a wide trench lined with sandbags, at the end of which was a solid metal door set in concrete.

"That looks more promising," said the Doctor, eyeing it. "With any luck that could lead us straight into the dome."

"It's locked," said Sarah, after tugging futilely at the latch. "Now what?"

"Now we - hush!" The Doctor shushed them and gestured Harry and Sarah Jane to join him in standing beside the slit entrance to the trench. Outside, there was a dragging noise, and the sound of heavy breathing.

A man, his figure and strangely distorted limbs wrapped in layers of shabby cloth, backed into the trench, towing behind him with both hands a crude cart laden with bits of machinery. He was hunched over, digging in with his heels and yanking at the too-heavy load on the cart. With every yank, his breath came in an explosive gasp. It hurt just to watch.

"Would you like a hand?" asked the Doctor, with a cheery smile, once the cart was completely through the entranceway. Whoever this fellow was, he certainly didn't look like a soldier.

The man dropped the handles of the cart, looking up from under his hood at them. His face was humanoid enough, but filthy and tired and desperately afraid. He stepped forward as though to run, and then tried to scramble over the cart that was blocking his escape route.

"Hang on there, we're not going to hurt you!" said Harry, trying to restrain the man as he flailed at him with thick limbs.

"We just want to talk!" Sarah chimed in.

The sound of her voice seemed to catch the man's attention. Balanced precariously atop his cartload, he looked at her, then at the Doctor and Harry, and clumsily backed off the cart. He hunched over the end of it, looking defensive and scared at once.

"Hello, we're travellers." The Doctor paused, to see if the grey figure would answer, but the man only hunched lower. "We were interested in going to the dome, could you tell us the best way to get there?"

The man answered in a rusty-sounding voice, like he didn't talk very often. "You want to get into the Kaled dome?"

The Doctor replied, "The Kaled dome ... K – A – L – E – D .. sounds like just the place we want to go!"

But the shabby man didn't answer; he was staring at Sarah Jane. Sarah, not knowing what else to do, smiled and said. "Hello. What's your name?"

"M – my name? My name's Sevrin. Are…are you all going to the city?"

"Yes, and any help you could give us would be appreciated. Could we give you a hand with anything?" inquired the Doctor.

"What?" said Sevrin, with a lost look on his face. He seemed completely startled by the idea of anyone offering him a hand.

"Would you like us to help you with your, er, stuff?" asked Harry. The cart looked heavy, and though he had no idea how strong Sevrin was, it certainly seemed like the polite thing to do was to offer to help.

But Sevrin hunched over the cart, and raised his arms in defence.

"It's my stuff, mine and my friends! We found it!"

"No, no, you don't understand," said Sarah. "We just wanted to know if you wanted help in moving it."

Sevrin looked down at the cart. "No, this is the place. You see, we take things we find, and we trade them for food. They send up a signal, and we can go to one of the entrances, but never where the soldiers can see!"

"Why not?"

"Because they'll shoot us on sight. They hate us, us Mutos, always."

The Doctor tilted his hat back on his head. "Tell me Sevrin, if the soldiers aren't who you trade with, then who are 'they' who send up a signal?"

Sevrin looked at Sarah Jane in confusion. "But aren't you one of them?"

"One of whom?" asked Sarah, but was interrupted by a grating sound. The metal door was opening, and Sevrin turned to face it.

The door swung fully open and a rather short soldier came out, wearing a gas mask and heavy gloves. This one's uniform was somewhat different from the ones they had seen on the bodies out on the battlefield. The gas mask had a red hexagon marked on one side, apparently with finger-paint. It gave the soldier the air of a particularly dangerous child.

The soldier removed the mask, and Sarah blinked; it was a woman soldier, with dark hair. If the travellers had been able to see the woman leading the soldiers who had taken down the sniper, they would have realised that this soldier was almost identical to her.

She smiled, and reached out with both hands to clasp Sevrin's arm.

"Hello, Sevrin. A good trip, I hope?"

Sevrin beamed. "Yes, look, I got a corrugator and two runnel cases, and these people, ah…"

"I'm the Doctor, and these are my companions, Harry Sullivan and Sarah Jane Smith."

"Smith? What an odd name," said the woman, her eyes suddenly wide. "I am Third Outer Speaker, called Thoss," she introduced herself, rhyming the name with 'moss.' Then she focussed back on the Muto. "Well Sevrin, are you taking away food for all of you?"

"Actually," said the Doctor with a smile, "I was wondering if we could come in. You see, we're travellers, and we're very curious about the Dome, the Kaleds, the war … everything really."

"Travellers. Curious indeed," said Thoss. She cocked her head to one side, and then stepped back into the doorway; when she emerged again, she had a large box under each arm.

Another soldier stepped silently out of the doorway behind her. He was not smiling, and his gun moved quickly to cover all of them. The woman noted the travellers' expressions and slowly turned around to face him.

Thoss stood very still, looking at the soldier. Then she asked, "Private Harb. Is there a problem?"

Harb – a young man Sarah could see now, barely grown up – flinched. "Who are you? How did you get out here? How do you know my name?"

Sarah Jane was now really confused. This woman was wearing the same uniform as Harb, but apparently they were strangers to each other.

"I know many things, Private." Thoss turned her back on the gun – quite deliberately – and put down the boxes beside Sevrin's cart with a thud. As Harb stood there, staring with a confused look on his face, she started to take the machinery from the cart with quick movements, still talking all the while.

"I know that you were talking with Private Zo yesterday morning, about the rumours of giving food to the Mutos in exchange for salvage. Well, the Kaleds need these materials, and can no longer manufacture them. And nobody wants to send you out into that poisonous swamp to get them."

The cart was empty; she turned and stared at Harb, who now looked more angry than confused. He stepped jerkily forward, pointing his rifle barrel now at the boxes she had brought out of the tunnel.

"You shouldn't be out here, it's forbidden! And now you steal food out of soldiers' mouths, for these Mutos!" Harb accused.

Thoss bent slowly and reached into one of the boxes, and pulled out a can. She pried open the end of it with a can opener that slid over the tip of her thumb, and then held it out, at arms' length, towards the soldier. He swayed forward, then back, and then lunged and grabbed the can and was back where he had stood before, in a blink. His gun had never wavered from its aim on them. Sarah was reminded of a pigeon, snapping a bit of bread from under the wheels of a moving truck.

Harb looked at the can, sniffed it. Then he slung the gun on its strap and dipped a finger in the syrupy contents.

Harry went to move forward, but the Doctor restrained him without looking. The soldier seemed distracted, but he was still armed – and dangerous.

"What is this?" he said finally, looking up at them, not yet daring to taste the syrup on his finger.

"It's perro fruit," she replied.

"Perro fruit? I've never seen…There haven't been any perro trees in years!"

Thoss kicked the box of food with a contemptuous flick of her heel. "These aren't soldiers' rations, Private. They're a cache of luxury foods that one of the, ah, plumper Councilmen had hidden away. Completely against regulations of course, all foodstuffs held in private are to be added to the communal store. He's going to be very disappointed when he finds them gone." She scowled, then turned and put the two heavy boxes on the cart, and asked Sevrin, "Enough?"

"Oh yes, yes," said Sevrin, clearly wanting to get away before the Private did anything else alarming. The woman patted him on the arm and said, "Take care of yourself."

As the Muto crept away pushing his lightened cart, Harb was still looking at the can. He was sucking on the syrupy finger now, and Sarah was struck again by how young he looked. "Luxury foods," he said, and scraped a last drop from under one fingernail with his teeth. "Those lucky…"

Thoss came up to him and gently pushed another can into one of his pockets. She smiled at his expression; Sarah thought it a rather pretty smile actually. "There's more where that came from. Keep it, Harb. Save it for a hungry day."

Harb, apparently not wanting to push his luck, trotted into the tunnel. From what Harry knew of soldiers, he was probably going to go find a private corner where he could devour his prize at once, before his fellows spotted it.

"Is he going to get in trouble about that?" Harry asked.

"No, and he isn't going to be reporting on us either. I took the liberty of adding something to that can while I opened it. He's about to lose the last two hours of his life." She sighed. "Drug-induced short term amnesia. A nasty trick to play on him really; give him this delicious treat and then delete the memory of eating it! I do hope he doesn't gulp down both cans at once, he might get a stomach ache."

"Rather unethical," observed the Doctor.

Thoss turned to the three travellers and said, "Sorry, but we're in a hurry here. There's a very narrow window of time before the next patrol arrives, and Harb took a chunk of it. Please," she gestured to the metal door, "come in."

As she led them inside, two more people in gasmasks came out past them and started picking up the salvage.

* * *

The travellers next found themselves in a tiny dark tunnel; their guide turned on a torch of some kind, looked at them, and then shook her head.

"I'd like nothing better than to take all three of you straight into the City, but I can't do that from here without taking you through the military sections, and the military can be … touchy."

"Touchy?" asked Harry.

"Territorial. Unless you have a military pass and a good reason to be here, they will shoot you. And me, for that matter. If only you weren't so big," she said, looking with some disapproval at the Doctor's lanky frame.

Thoss continued, "It might almost be safer to take you out and back in through another entrance. But it's getting dark, and not all the Mutos are as Norm-friendly as Sevrin."

The Doctor shrugged, noncommittal.

She bit at her knuckle in thought, and then asked, "Before we go any further – are you a medical Doctor?"

The Doctor replied, "Not really, that's more Harry's line of work."

Thoss turned to Harry and said, "You're hired."

Harry protested, "Oh no really, I wouldn't know what do to. I mean…"

The Doctor interrupted, "When I said we were travellers, I meant, travellers from another planet."

Thoss looked at them, flat-faced. In a voice just as flat, she asked Harry, "Can you sew a straight line?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Then you're hired. I'm going to call someone to get you into the Medical Centre in the Dome; they'll slap surgical gear on you and nobody will question your presence."

"You're going to let a stranger do surgery on your people?" asked Sarah.

There was anger in their guide's voice now. "There are people dying right now, Smith, because we do not have enough doctors to do the simplest triage and repair work. I'll take anyone who can help – if they are willing. Are you willing?"

Harry was visibly struggling between his doctor's training and his desire to stay with his friends. "I'm not sure…"

"I can get you into the Dome one at a time much easier than all three together. I promise you will be reunited as soon as possible."

Harry agreed, and Thoss pulled loose a wire that was strung against the wall. She seemed to mutter into it, or hold it to her ear; then they waited a remarkably short time before another figure appeared in the edge of the light. Without a word, two hands clasped one of Harry's and led him off into the darkness.

Almost at the same instant, there was another light at the end of the tunnel, and male voices. Thoss turned off her light, and quickly whispered. "You two should stay together – you are less likely to be harmed. Tell them whatever they want to know. We will be watching."

The feel of her presence vanished, and Sarah Jane and the Doctor found themselves pinned in a blinding blaze of light from several hand-held torches. There was the clicking of rifle bolts being drawn.

"Hands up! Identify yourselves!" shouted a man's voice from the darkness.

"Hello there," said the Doctor, raising his hands. "I'm the Doctor, and this is Sarah Jane Smith. We're travellers, the Third Outer Speaker let us in."

Sarah, her hands raised as well, smiled desperately into the blinding light. She blinked, but whoever was on the other side of the light might as well be invisible.

There was a mutter of voices; the only words the Doctor could make out were 'spy,' 'shoot' and 'woman.'

"Describe this Third Outer Speaker," came another shout.

Sarah started to answer, "She was – "and was cut off.

"Grab them!"

Then there was nothing but grasping hands out of the dark.


	2. The War Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Sarah Jane are taken to the Bunker, and meet Davros.

The two prisoners were dragged down a tunnel and into a room, where a dim electric light showed tattered bunks and a wall covered with futuristic guns, along with primitive weapons that would not have been out of place in a Stone Age hut. The man who had captured them looked at the Doctor and Sarah, and shook his head.

"I thought we'd got one of them at last, but I guess not. Still, they don't look like Thals, or Mutos." He paced closer and stared at Sarah Jane, then the Doctor, and finally shook his head. He turned to one of the other men, and asked, "Were there any noises?"

"Noises, sir?"

"You know - those noises," he snapped.

"No sir, nothing - unnatural. But we might have missed it. The men are exhausted."

"Well, have them rest now. I'm taking these two to headquarters and General Ravon."

"Sir, one other thing. We'd propped up casualties out there to use as decoys, make it look like the trench was manned. And they're gone."

"Who steals dead bodies out of a war zone?" whispered Sarah to the Doctor. But there was no reply, only a rough shove to get them moving.

After a trip through more concrete tunnels, they ended up what seemed some sort of military briefing room, with a manned radio to one side and maps on the walls. In the middle of the room was a table bearing a large contour map; the Doctor recognised a model of the dome that they were presumably heading for, and saw that across a nearly mountain range was another dome. Between the two domes were square and rectangular markers - troop markers?

Sitting at the side of the table, brooding, was a young man with far more medals on his uniform than anyone that young should have earned. He was whittling away at a small red marker of some sort with a wickedly sharp knife; a pile of the tiny red markers sat at the side of the contour map by him. He looked up with a scowl, and his dark eyes settled on Sarah.

"What's this?" he said disapprovingly.

One of the soldiers who had captured them said, "General Ravon, sir, we found these two in Section one-zero-one …"

General Ravon – this boy was a General? Sarah wondered – arched one brow and said "Oh? Well, then the standard interrogation should loosen their tongues." He stood then, and came forward, staring at Sarah. "We so rarely get to interrogate women." He looked at her, testing the edge of his knife with his thumb, as though she was a well-done roast and he was deciding where to start carving her.

The soldier continued doggedly, "Sir, we found them inside the tunnels in Section one-zero-one. They breached the perimeter and nobody sounded the alarm."

"Who was on duty?" snapped Ravon, sheathing the knife at his belt.

"The duty schedule had a - gap."

"A gap? We are at war here, Captain Talt. A war of total annihilation. A war that we are going to win! All duty schedules are to have complete coverage of all entry points, is that understood?"

"Yes sir, but we need -

"More men, more men, I know!" Ravon turned his back and stared down at the contour map; the Doctor, being considerably taller, looked over his shoulder with ease. Ravon saw the prisoner's motion out of the corner of his eye.

"Every man that can be spared is out there, Captain, fighting to exterminate our enemies once and for all. To wipe the Thals from the face of Skaro. Burn their dome to the ground, make a pyre for all the Kaleds who have died in this war." Ravon's voice throbbed with fanaticism, as he returned to the map and started placing the little red markers irregularly over it, mostly to one side.

"Are those markers for the Thals?" asked the Doctor.

Ravon didn't appear to hear him. He was totally focused on his task, and two of the soldiers guarding the Doctor and Sarah sidled uneasily, whispering to each other.

Captain Talt spoke up again, trying to get Ravon's attention. "Your orders were to bring anything unusual we found for your examination. They said a woman let them in, called Third Outer Speaker. So I brought them back here, sir."

Ravon placed the last of his markers, and then with sudden violence banged his fist down on the table holding the contour map. Sarah jumped. "Right!" he declared. "Finally, something real we can show those Elite …"

Ravon's voice trailed off at the entry of a man in a military uniform somehow different than his. His spectacles gleamed, along with the guns of his two personal guards.

"Those Elite … what, General Ravon?" the man said.

"Security Commander Nyder. Those, ah, Elite – personnel who don't believe the reports from the field."

"Davros says the reports must be the result of delusion. And what are these – things?"

By things he seemed to mean the Doctor and Sarah; Sarah looked rather indignant at being called a thing.

"A good question." Ravon stood and examined the prisoners. "They aren't Mutos, and they aren't Thals. And they say that a woman," Ravon repeated for emphasis, "a woman, let them into Section one-zero-one."

"Have they been searched?" asked Nyder.

"No. Turn out your pockets!" The boy General reinforced this command by drawing his sidearm, even though there were quite enough guns in the room already.

"All right … I try to clean them out once a year or so anyway!" said the Doctor, with a broad grin. He started to assemble a motley collection out of his various pockets onto the edge of the table: a yo-yo, his sonic screwdriver, a bag of candy, a pair of handcuffs, and various unidentified gadgets. Sarah's contributions were far more  meagre : a pocket handkerchief, her folded rain hat, an empty film canister, and a sprig of gorse.

"A little bit of home, eh?" said the Doctor, poking at the gorse.

"Don't know when I'll see home again," said Sarah, nervously eying the nervous soldiers around them both.

Nyder stirred the  travellers ' possessions with one gloved finger, and finally chose a small red and black device out of the Doctor's selection, picking it up and examining it with a magnifying glass.

"What is this?" he asked, in the tone of a man who expects to be answered.

"It's for the detection of etheric beams, actually."

"It is not of Thal manufacture, where did you get it?"

"Oh well, you see, my companion and I are not from your planet."

Nyder said slowly, "Davros says that there is no life on other planets. So either he is wrong, or you are lying."

The Doctor quickly broke in, "We're not lying."

Nyder went on, "And Davros is never wrong."

The Doctor replied gravely, "Remarkable; even I am wrong on occasion."

"And according to you," Nyder stepped closer to Mary Jane, who stood her ground, "this woman is also an alien? Not just a particularly symmetrical Muto?"

"There were  rumours that the Thals were developing robots," said Ravon, moving next to Nyder and toying with the hilt of his knife. "We could see if she bleeds." He and Nyder exchanged a glance.

Sarah really wanted to divert this train of thought. "Who are Mutos anyway?" she asked. "Are they some - indigenous tribe or something?" Sevrin hasn't seemed like anything to be feared.

Nyder looked down his nose at her. "Mutos are genetically impure rejects, the result of chemical weapons used in the first century of the war. Monsters who live and scavenge in the wastelands."

Sarah was still trying to understand Nyder's statement. "Rejects from?"

"The Kaled raced must be kept pure. Imperfects must be expelled before they can breed. Some survive."

Sarah gasped, picturing infants or children being cast out into that horrid landscape she had just left. The Doctor murmured, "A harsh policy."

Paying no attention to the prisoners, Nyder addressed General Ravon.

"Now, here is a list of supplies that you are ordered to deliver to the Bunker."

Nyder handed a piece of paper to Ravon, who looked over it. Then he looked up at Nyder, with just the hint of a smile on his face.

"Well, Commander, you'll be happy to know that all of these supplies are available. We have ample spares, and they should cause no shortages at all."

Nyder looked a hair taken aback, and Raven went on, "Strange, but if anything, these days we seem to be oversupplied with equipment."

Ravon turned and frowned down on his map. "Certain equipment that is. Bandages, general hardware, medical supplies, that is no problem. Ammo is hard, and there's never enough men."

Commander Nyder asked, "And just where should I suppose those supplies really came from? Stolen? Withheld loot?"

"Recycled?" put in Sarah Jane; the two Kaleds stared at her.

The Doctor chimed in, "Salvaged might be a more accurate term, we met a fellow outside who was doing some salvage work. A corrugator, runnel cases, and … well, general purpose hardware."

"By the box load," Sarah confirmed.

Nyder stared at both of them, then seemed to come to a decision. What influenced his decision most was, irrationally enough to any non-natives, Sarah's rain anorak. Why would anyone make protective clothing, clearly for outside, that was in such a distinctive colour? You'd be a sniper target lit up bright yellow!

Commander Nyder didn't like mysteries; although he did like taking mysteries apart.

"Ravon, you will release these prisoners to me. I want them properly interrogated, not butchered like your men would do. If there's any truth to these reports, we'll have it out of them."

Sarah Jane shivered; there was something terribly cold behind that mild voice and face.

Ravon replied, "The truth is equipment appearing out of nowhere, and now strangers walking in through our sealed access points. And look here!"

The General turned and pointed at the red markers on the contour map.

"Those markers are where I have reports of strange troops being seen. Not our men, not Thals in captured uniforms, and not Mutos either. They fade through the lines, and nobody can lay a hand on them. And they make - noises."

"Davros says these reports are false. You are not diverting military resources to hunt down these mythical shrieking ghosts, I trust. General." Nyder's voice was heavy with disbelief.

The other soldiers in the room shifted, except for Nyder's two escorts, who stood still as rocks by the door. Ravon looked up and snapped, "They are not ghosts! They are – something out there – something else …"

"I don't suppose these ghosts go 'ayayaya'?" asked the Doctor. "When that sniper had us pinned down, that cry or noise was …"

"Yes, but it wasn't 'ayayaya,' it was more like, eyiyiyiyiyi" – Sarah's imitation of the noise was cut off when Ravon leaped on her and seized her, clamping a hand over her mouth. The Doctor moved to defend his companion, and one of the soldiers behind him slammed him in the kidneys with a rifle butt, dropping him to his knees.

Ravon shouted in her face, "DON'T make that noise! Never make …." And then his voice trailed off.

Because the eyiyiyiyi noise had not stopped when Sarah had been silenced; instead it sounded off in the distance, then seemed to be getting closer.

Eyyiyiyiyi

EYIYIYIYI

The soldiers in the room drew their weapons, but there was nothing to see. Nyder drew his own pistol; Ravon's hand was locked over Sarah's mouth. The Doctor looked up from where he had fallen, a hand cocked behind each ear to capture the sound.

Eyiyiyiyiiii…..

And then the noise softly faded away, as though for want of an answer.

Ravon removed his hand from Sarah's mouth - the hand was shaking - and pointed at Nyder.

"And what was that, Commander, what was that!" he said, eyes wide with fright, but triumph in his voice. "You heard that, we all did!"

"I heard - something, true." Nyder seemed to draw his authority back around himself, calmly holstering his weapon as though he had just happened to draw it. "And I will ask that your concerns be addressed, General."

Ravon almost pouted, but seemed to sense that this was as much as he was going to get out of the older man.

Nyder said, "I'm taking these prisoners to the Bunker. With their possessions."

Ravon asked, "And will you tell Davros what you've seen, what you've heard, here today?"

"Perhaps."

Nyder  signalled one of his guards to fall in behind Sarah Jane and the Doctor, while he gathered up their possessions into a box and gave it to the other. As they left, Sarah Jane glanced over her shoulder.

Behind them, Ravon sat beside his map, using a swagger stick to tap the red markers, one at a time, over and over again …

* * *

The  travellers were not taken to the Dome, but were instead marched over what seemed to be a mile or so of rather noisome swampland, and then into a low stone building. They descended several turns down a stone ramp before coming face to face with a heavy steel door, topped by a camera.

A speaker beside the door squawked, "You will state your identification number and the nature of your business."

Nyder glared at the camera. "Use your eyes, Tane. Commander Nyder and escort, and two prisoners for interrogation."

"Yes, SIR!" half-shouted this Tane. Clearly Nyder was a man to commander fear and respect.

Inside the welcome room was far from welcoming; it was a narrow steel-lined room with far too many guards in it. Nyder turned to the man in a uniform like his own, and handed him the plastic box containing Sarah Jane and the doctor's personal possessions.

"I must report to Davros at once. Captain Tane, you will process these prisoners and deliver them to Ronson." Without another word, Nyder and his escort marched out.

The room seemed a great deal roomier without Nyder's presence, and the Doctor turned one of his brilliant smiles on Tane and said, "Well, now that he's off, how about a cup of tea?"

"A cup of what?" barked Tane; he seemed like the sort of fellow who barked all the time. There was something very doggish about him, with his dark hair and darker frown, like an angry pug puppy.

"Perhaps a snack? Biscuits?" suggested Sarah.

Tane's expression grew even darker. "Need I remind you that you are prisoners, and that if you do not obey my orders I have the authority to have you shot?"

Sarah muttered to herself, "So much for the tea …"

"You, in the scanner!" Two of the guards took Sarah by the elbows and dragged her under a metal arch; once she was in position under it, a bright light came down on her, seeming to pin her, and a harsh computer tone sounded. Sarah shuddered, as though the light was hurting her; and when it finally turned off and she stepped forward, her knees wobbled and one of the guards had to help her out.

"Oof! Like having your brains scraped out through your nose!" she complained.

"Now you," ordered Tane, and the Doctor was given the same treatment. But when he was under the arch, in addition to the computer tone, there was a shrill alarm.

"Power source detected on prisoner's right arm. Remove it," ordered Tane to the guards, who proceeded to roll up the Doctor's sleeve and remove the Time Ring. Shaking all over from the effects of the scan, the prisoner still made a play for his possession. "That's not a weapon, it's of no possible use to-" A blow silenced the Doctor, and he was roughly guided over to stand with Sarah. The scanner machine extruded a series of printed cards that were handed to the guard.

She whispered, "Hush up about that Ring!"

"Sarah, that Ring is our lifeline, it's vital that we not lose it."

"Sorry, would it have helped if I'd said it was an old family heirloom?"

The Doctor scowled, but still watched carefully as the Ring was placed in the box with their other few possessions and given to a guard, who escorted them away.

Deeper inside the Bunker they went: metal corridors, busy people in white uniforms, and more and more sleek soldiers. They were finally shoved into a sort of main laboratory: at a series of desks, more harried-looking men in white wrote and measured and carried out tests. Sarah Jane and the Doctor were led to a desk where an exhausted-looking older man was working.

"Prisoners for interrogation," said the guard, and walked away. The two  travellers looked at the scientist, who looked up and said, "My name is Ronson. Please sit down."

Grateful for the unexpected kindness, they did, taking some chairs from along the wall. "Pleased to meet someone who can talk without shoving a gun in our faces," said the Doctor. "I'm the Doctor, and this is Sarah Jane Smith."

"Well, I'm sorry about the guards. But I am afraid if you do not answer my questions, I will have to hand you back to them." Ronson opened the box of their possessions and was immediately alight with curiosity; behind him a woman in grey walked up and put down three cups on the desk, and gestured for the strangers to take two. Sarah Jane thought she looked familiar, but she only saw the other woman's face for a moment and her hair was in the way.

Ronson looked up, blinked at the appearance of the cup at his own elbow, and asked, "Where did you get these  artefacts ?"

"Oh, other places, other worlds," answered the Doctor. "It's amazing what you find out and about in the universe."

Ronson replied with a touch of arrogance, "It is a scientific fact that there is no other life in the seven galaxies."

"Isn't it also a scientific fact that there are more than seven galaxies?"

Ronson sniffed with disbelief. "As it happens, when you went through the security scanner, it made a complete record of your physiognomy, electrocardiogram patterns, and …" Ronson examined the cards that had been handed to him along with their possessions, and his eyes widened with surprise.

"Nothing matches – nothing matches any Thal, Muto or Kaled physiognomy! The Sarah Jane is somewhat like us but … you are …" Then he flipped back through the cards, frowned, and told the Doctor, "Show me your hair."

The Doctor obliging bent his head and ruffled his disordered curls into more disorder. "Anything in particular you're looking for? Four owls and a wren maybe?"

"Shouldn't those be in your beard?" asked Sarah.

"No..." said Ronson, looking at the card again. He said, not looking up, "Don't stare, but that Laboratory Assistant back there – can you see her? In her hair?"

They both could; she was standing with her back to them, talking to another one of the scientists. Her hair was loose, and where it parted off to one side Sarah Jane thought she saw something shiny. Metal? The Laboratory Assistant ran her fingers through her hair and the metal was covered.

"Metal discs in her scalp. Hmm, looks like a neural transmission array. Implanted in vitro, I presume?" guessed the Doctor.

Ronson's attention was focused completely on the Doctor now. "You recognise them? Tell me-" A soft bonging noise came from overhead, over the speaker system, and Ronson immediately stood and gestured his visitors to do the same. A voice came over the intercom, 'Davros will address the Scientific Elite in the main laboratory. All members of the Elite Scientific Corps are to gather in the main laboratory at once.' Immediately doors along the sides of the room opened, and more scientists began to enter and take up positions.

"Who is this Davros? He seems a very popular fellow," asked the Doctor.

"Our greatest scientist, our Supreme Commander," said Ronson formally. "It must be a matter of great urgency for him to come here and address us. So keep still, and be quiet!" Following Ronson's example, Sarah and the Doctor rose to their feet.

A door opened at the back of the laboratory, and three men entered. One was Commander Nyder; beside him was another man in the same black uniform, but with a broad pleasant face and wavy brown hair. But it was the man who entered before them who took the  visitors ' shocked attention.

He was only half a man; a horribly withered face and twisted torso seemed to merge with an elaborate wheelchair. His body was forced erect with a back brace, and wrapped in a black plastic tunic. His head was crowned with a network of wires and a microphone by one cheek; the Doctor guessed that both eyes and ears must be mechanically augmented. He seemed more machine than man.

He should have been pitiful. He was terrifying. Blind, legless, but his presence filled the room like fire.

Davros spoke, and his voice was an eerie machine-like rasp.

"If I may have your attention. For some time I have been experimenting with the Mark Three project. Details of the modifications will be distributed later. However I am anxious that you should see immediately the remarkable results that I have achieved. And to that end I have arranged this demonstration." His wizened hand reached out and flipped one of the many switches that lined the front panel of his chair, and a door opened.

Sarah Jane and the Doctor immediately recognised the thing that trundled into the laboratory, guided by two technicians. It was a Dalek, with the familiar cone-shaped body and eyestalk, but looking crude and unfinished without its arm and inbuilt weapon. And its motions were halting, tentative, not the smooth sweeping glides that both of the alien observers knew so well.

"Oh no," Sarah whispered. "We're too late, the Daleks have already been created!"

"The what?" asked Ronson, then his attention was drawn back to the demonstration.

"Forward … forward … halt." Davros' commands were followed by his creation as best it could; the two technicians stood back, clearly not assisting the Dalek anymore.

"He's perfected voice control. Magnificent!" whispered Ronson to the two captives.

Davros continued, "The introduction and perfection of voice control is a great achievement, I am sure you agree. However the project has advanced even beyond that. Nyder. Gharman."

The Dalek had halted in the  centre of the room, and Gharman and Nyder busied themselves in taking an arm and a gun from a case, and inserting them into the proper sockets on the front of the Dalek.

Davros' metallic voice rang out, "The creature is now outfitted for exploration and for  defence . I have introduced it to a new environment - this laboratory. And it is totally self-controlled - as of now." His hand flipped another switch on his chair, and the scientists murmured in alarm. "It is a living, self-motivated intelligent being."

The Dalek began to move, almost gingerly,  swivelling its head so its barrel eyestalk could look around the laboratory. Davros moved his own chair after it, then halted to give it more room to explore. 

What did the Dalek make of the men standing at attention, the Doctor wondered. Did it think they were there for it? The more urgent question seemed to be, what the Dalek would think of them. It was wandering along the row of desks. Now it was peering at the Doctor and Sarah Jane, and its sucker arm moved in small circles as it observed them.

"It detects the nonconformity," whispered Davros.

"Alien!" the Dalek suddenly barked. It moved forward in almost a lunge, then back. Its eye darted back and forth, between the two strange figures in front of it.

The Dalek spoke again. "Alien … Alien units .. Aliens." Then it sat there, as though expecting an answer.

"Well yes, actually, we are aliens," said the Doctor, with a grave face.

"Dissimilar alien units … fight. Fight!"

"Well, we bicker on occasion, but we don't fight," answered Sarah.

"We don't fight each other just because we're aliens," said the Doctor. His mind raced: could this be a chance, right at the start, to introduce new concepts into the very first Daleks? "In fact," he continued, "there are many alien races that live in harmony with one another without fi-"

The Doctor stopped as the Dalek's eyestalk abruptly swivelled to the left, as though staring at the gathered scientists. It spoke again.

"First Laboratory Assistant."

The scientists did not move, but their eyes darted about.

The Dalek advanced towards their line, and they swayed back a step. Louder it repeated, "First Laboratory Assistant!"

Slowly, a figure leaned out from behind one of the scientists. Sarah Jane could have sworn that it was Thoss, but now she was dressed in a grey outfit cut rather like the scientists', with a plain white armband peeking out from under one short sleeve.

The Dalek backed up, and First Laboratory Assistant slipped through the line-up and stood in front of the creature and - beamed. She looked at the Dalek like it was the most adorable thing in the world to her.

She clasped her hands in front of her and asked the Dalek, "Sensory?"

The Dalek looked about and then at her.

"Excellent," it said.

First Laboratory Assistant grinned even wider. Then she put out one foot, with her heel down and toe up, and bounced it up and down, while making a noise like 'ikki-ikki-ikki'

The Dalek - burbled, that was the only word for it. One of the scientists looked like he was about to pass out; clearly the demonstration was not going as he thought it would. At all.

"Priorities?" asked First Laboratory Assistant.

The Dalek replied, "Exterminate!"

The young woman actually clapped her hands with glee – but the glee on her face was quickly erased. Davros has said something to Nyder, and the Security Commander had fallen out of line and was moving towards her.

The Dalek seemed to notice the direction of her alarmed gaze, and turned around, and then glided forward, menacing. Nyder stopped in his tracks, and First Laboratory Assistant stood behind the Dalek and peered over its dome, like a child hiding.

Ignoring the frozen Commander, the Dalek turned around again and gestured with its sucker arm for First Laboratory Assistant to stand next to the two prisoners. She did so.

"Have we met?" asked the Doctor out of the corner of his mouth.

"You and I have not met, but we have met, yes," she replied.

Now the Dalek was staring at the three of them. It backed up, as though to take them all in at once. Then it turned around, and moved towards Davros, and started to shout as only a Dalek can shout, its arm and weapon twitching. Nyder stood his ground, ready to shield his leader with his own body.

"Alien units! Dissimilar! They fight! Three! Why do they not fight! Attack! Exterminate! Why, why, why…"

Ronson was visibly shaking at this outburst; when the Dalek started to move in on Davros, he broke and dashed to Davros' side. He flipped the switch that had activated the creature, and the Dalek immediately was silenced, still, limbs hanging limp.

"You dare to stop my experiment, Ronson!" said Davros, turning his chair to face the scientist.

"I…I feared for your safety, Davros. The creature is still unstable, it...."

"Silence! The creature would never have attacked me. I am its creator. Your interference is inexcusable. The creature would have corrected its perceptions and oriented on its target - the aliens."

"Davros, please … I believe these aliens to have valuable information. They should not be terminated on … until that information is extracted."

The Doctor whispered to Sarah, "Terminated on a whim, I think he was about to say."

Davros seemed to be thinking over Ronson's request, and then he snapped out, "You will question the prisoners and indicate to me as soon as you have the information you require. The sensory array of the Mark Three travel machine clearly needs considerably more refinement."

The scientist who had looked about to faint now gulped in terror. The Doctor had a feeling that he was the sensory array designer.

Davros continued, "The aliens will be held in reserve for future testing. This demonstration is ended."

The crippled scientist turned his chair and rolled out of the laboratory, followed by Gharman and Nyder. Ronson came over to the two aliens, ignoring the group of scientists who were gathered around the inert Dalek, and said, "It should have attacked you, they are conditioned to attack."

"I don't know why it didn't. For a Dalek, it seems positively placid," replied the Doctor.

"It is a Mark Three travel machine, and it is dangerous. I don't understand why Davros .."

He was interrupted by Commander Nyder, who had returned to the laboratory.

"The prisoners are to be taken to the holding cells. You can continue questioning them there. Davros orders it." He turned away, gesturing for two guards who came over and herded Sarah Jane and the Doctor out of the room. After they were gone, Ronson joined the group of scientists, but frowned with his own thoughts. Behind him on his desk, the aliens' belongings waited - a handful of instruments, a bit of twig, a heavy copper bracelet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While things may only seem subtly askew right now, I assure you, in a few chapters we will be in wild and uncharted waters!


	3. Inside the Dome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: discussion of war injuries, discussion of culling of injured soldiers

Harry Sullivan stumbled out of the Kaled operating  theatre . Dropping the bundle of surgeon's robes into the bin by the door, he leaned against the wall. He held out his hands in front of him; they were trembling with fatigue.

A woman followed him, wearing surgical garb plus a mask; she asked, "Sorry, Doctor Sullivan. We've asked too much of you, haven't you?"

"I…I'm just more tired than I thought. My hands…" He held them out, and she took one and held it.

"You've been in there for hours, you know. We thank you, for all your help. Why don't you lie down now and rest."

Rest sounded wonderful to Harry.

She led him into a dimly lit room, where rows of figures lay shoulder to shoulder on cots. Most were still; all were heavily swathed with bandages. There was an empty bunk at one end, and Harry sat down on it, and sipped at a glass of water given to him by – "I do apologise, but what is your name?" he asked.

There was a smile in her voice, although he couldn't see her mouth. "I am Fourteenth Surgeon called Fosu, Doctor Sullivan. Rest now."

 

Harry finished the water and lay back. His feet hurt as much as his hands and shoulders; he'd been standing, sewing up gashes and gouges on one patient after another, while other doctors worked on the more serious wounds. It was like some ghastly parody of an assembly line, except he was putting back together items that had been partially disassembled on the battlefield. And all of the patients were young men, terribly young, some not old enough to raise a beard.

Harry closed his eyes, and thought he might have dozed for a bit; he was roused by the sound of one of the wounded, thrashing and moaning. Harry raised himself up on one elbow to see better. The man's face was bandaged from the nose up, and his bandaged hands were patting frantically at his face.

"I can't see! I can't see!" said the soldier, his voice rising into hysteria. He tried to sit up and a woman was there, gently pushing the patient back. Harry thought she bore a striking resemblance to Third Outer Speaker.

"You are blind, Private Zo," she said. Harry winced at the flat statement of fact.

Zo stopped moving, and then asked, "Blind? Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Zo sighed, and seemed to collapse a little bit smaller into the bunk. "Then – you won't send me back?"

"No, no, we won't send you back. We promise."

Zo's voice sounded even smaller when he asked, "And … when will I be culled?"

Harry swallowed.

The woman replied sharply, "You will not be culled, Private Zo. And we will not send you back."

Zo shook his head, not seeming to understand. His voice turned querulous. "And what's wrong with my ears? Your voice sounds wrong. I can't hear you right."

The woman – Fourteenth Surgeon? Harry couldn't tell – unwrapped one of Zo's hands, baring the palm and holding the loose bandages against the ugly wound on the back. Sitting him up a little, she took his hand in both of hers and held it against her cheek, and spoke.

"My name is Tenth Healer called Tehea, Private Zo, and you are hearing me just fine. You will not be culled, and we will not send you back."

Zo was still; his fingers twitched a little against Tehea's face.

"A woman. I can't remember when I last heard a woman's voice. I…I didn't recognise it!" He sobbed once, harshly. His fingers moved gently over the side of her face.

"Are you in pain? Hungry?" she asked.

"No, no, I … I'm not in pain. I can just stay here then?"

"Yes," said Tehea. "Stay and rest. We can read or sing to you, if you like; or if you have any messages to pass on, we will take them."

"I can rest." The wounded man's voice was choked with happy astonishment. "As long as I want?"

"As long as you want, Private Zo. Rest now. No more forced marches, no more digging, no more running, no more killing. Just rest."

Zo lay back down, seeming to pass almost instantly into sleep. Tehea touched his cheek, and rose - and a shot rang out. Eyes wide, she clutched at her side, and then fell.

Behind her was a man in a filthy uniform, with a smoking gun in his shaking hand. Although Harry did not recognise him, he was the sniper who had been apprehended earlier while he was trying to shoot the Doctor and his companions. In the rush to get him off the battlefield, he had not been searched for weapons thoroughly enough.

"Stop! Drop it, right now." Harry rose to his feet, and all around them the wounded babbled and waved bandaged limbs, trying to figure out what was going on. Zo was patting the air around his bunk, desperately trying to find the woman he'd just been talking to. Harry ignored them against his will, focused all his attention on the man with the gun. He had to stop him before he shot someone else. "These men are all wounded, for pity's sake put that away!"

"You!" The sniper lunged forward and grabbed Harry by the arm, pressing the handgun against him. "Who are you?"

"I'm a doctor and these are my patients!" Harry snapped.

"Got to, got to get out. Get out of here. You, take me out of here!" and Harry was dragged out the door much against his will.

Outside, the sniper started trotting down the hallway, hauling Harry after him. One of the other surgeons stuck her head out of a doorway, saw them, and lunged backwards; the bullet ricocheted off the doorframe instead of hitting her. Immediately there came a wailing from the room where she had hidden.

Eyyyiyiyiyiyi …

"No! Damn you!" said the sniper, breaking into a run and forcing Harry to run as well. They went down one white hallway, then another, and the wailing seemed to keep track behind them. Harry was trying to calculate how he could break free - the corridors were out, nowhere to hide, could he force a door and close it behind him? How did you lock these sliding doors anyway? Then the sniper stopped and pointed to a black rectangle on the wall, covered with white squiggles.

"There, read that for me!"

"I'm sorry, I can't read that."

"You can't read? But you're a doctor, not a soldier. Doctors can read!" The sniper let go of Harry and started backing away from him, towards the corridor intersection.

"You mean they don't teach-" said Harry, just as the sniper stepped into the intersection and a shot rang out, then several shots. The sniper dropped slackly to the floor, and Harry leaped to the corner - and then stopped. Could he drag the man back out of firing range? Should he? He didn't seem to be breathing. Harry was tempted to run, but he could not leave a man who might only be wounded, when immediate aid might save his life.

"Hold your fire! I'm a doctor!" he shouted, raising his hands over his head. He stepped sideways around the corner, and came face-to-face with four frantic looking women in loose white robes. One was barely out of girlhood, and the other three seemed to be in their thirties, but all four of them clutched ugly-looking rifles that were aimed directly at Harry.

 

* * *

The door to the Bunker security cell opened, and the Doctor was shoved through; the door had closed before he could pull himself from his hands and knees. Sarah Jane was there to help him up.

"Are you all right?" she asked. The Doctor looked exhausted, mentally bruised if not physically as well.

"Well, in one piece at least, Sarah. They wanted technological information, I gave it to them; every bit of gobbledygook I could remember, things even I can't understand. They'll be weeks trying to make heads or tails of it!"

"And where are we exactly?"

The Doctor frowned. "This is the Bunker, where the Kaled military and scientific elite are concentrated. They were formed to build weapons for the war, but they have grown so powerful that they can demand anything they want."

"Like the Manhattan Project," suggested Sarah.

"Exactly. But I am worried about Harry."

"Oh, Harry can take care of himself," said Sarah with an air of confidence she didn't entirely feel. She tried to think of what she could change the subject to. "Say, have you seen the washrooms here? Grab bars and foot pedals everywhere. Like in a hospital."

"Yes, well that follows doesn't it?" The Doctor ran a hand over his face. "A centuries long war means centuries of battlefield injuries. And handicaps. Everything has to be designed to be accessible to the injured, there probably isn't a flight of stairs anywhere in the Bunker."

The Doctor looked thoughtful. "Which actually might explain some things."

"Did you see the Dalek again?" asked Sarah.

"No, but I heard about it. Davros is driving the Elite to refine the Dalek sensory array. He's convinced that some error in the creature's perception caused it not to kill us. As soon as the new improvements are incorporated into the Dalek, we'll be presented to it again."

"Oh lovely," said Sarah. "We're its National Health vision exam."

The Doctor went on, "I'm more interested in why its sensory array reported that-" but he was interrupted by the cell door opening.

Both captives looked up. Ronson was standing there, with a black-clad guard at his elbow. Ronson entered, and when the guard made to follow the scientist ordered, "No, wait outside. I am armed." The guard closed the door between them.

Ronson said, "I'm sorry about your interrogation, but I couldn't think of any excuse to stop it. The military can be brutal, but they are the ones in charge." Ronson sat down on the end of Sarah's cot, and the Doctor sat on the opposite one. The scientist continued, "And I am under suspicion, because of my impulsive actions yesterday."

"I would think you'd be rather in  favour , actually. Think how embarrassing it would have been if the Dalek had taken a pot shot at its creator. You may have saved Davros' life."

Ronson leaned forward, intensely focused on the Doctor. "Dalek. You used that word yesterday, and I said I had never heard it before. Nobody had heard that word. But today, just a few hours ago, Davros announced that from now on, the Mark Three travel machine was to be known as a Dalek. Now how could you know that?"

The Doctor tried to think of how to tell him. How to explain that he came from a time where the Daleks were an intergalactic menace? He started with, "Let's say that I am here because the Daleks are of grave interest to future generations."

"Future generations," repeated Ronson. "And yet, as monstrous as they are, the Daleks may be the only chance of our race's survival."

"How so?" asked Sarah."

"The war, you understand. It has been going on for centuries. Right after the first massive nuclear and chemical weapons strikes, the Kaled race underwent a terrible change. More and more of our children were born deformed, genetically damaged."

"The Mutos," said the Doctor.

"Exactly. Davros ran simulations, and determined that the mutation process was irreversible. That our descendents would inevitably become the sort of creatures who could survive on the tainted remnants of our planet. He was determined to find our final form. He took living cells, exposed them to massive doses of poisons and radiation, and the results - lived."

Ronson looked down at his feet and swallowed before he went on.

"Davros was certain that these creatures could be the key to winning the war, if given means of propulsion and attack. So - the Mark Three travel machine project. The Daleks. They were conditioned to obey, to fight. Their travel machines make them unstoppable."

"Did Davros invent the neural transmission arrays as well?"

"The what?" asked Ronson. "You said before-"

"Yes, the round metal plates embedded in the Assistant's head. Flat, about the size of a fingertip maybe. They certainly looked like a transmission array to me."

Ronson replied, "Davros says that they are nothing, mere decoration."

The Doctor leaned forward. "Ah, and how does he know that?"

Ronson looked up. "Dissection, of course. He, he had me do the preliminary - cuts." The Kaled scientist flinched at Sarah Jane's expression, clenching his fists as though he wanted to crush his own fingers. Then his words can rushing out.

"And that's another thing, the Assistants. There are very few Kaled women born each generation. Ten males for each female, it's been that way ever since the war began, due to environmental stress. Kaled women are all kept in the  Womens' Quarters, in the deepest part of the Dome, sheltered from the fallout and contamination as best we can. But - about a year ago, one of the scientists here, Hif, disappeared into thin air, and nobody found out what happened to him. A few months after his disappearance, there was an announcement, that a selection of women of the highest intellectual quality, the Red Hexagon group, was to be allowed to work in the Bunker."

"Highest intellectual quality. Do tell." Sarah Jane had thought the Assistant, and Thoss as well, rather pretty in a sharp-faced way. She could understand why the Elite, trapped underground in their laboratory, wouldn't mind having a few ladies with 'intellectual quality' around.

Ronson shook his head slowly. "They are beyond brilliant, every one of them. Instant calculators, deep and intuitive mathematicians, they take to gene engineering like second nature. And they are kind too, terribly kind. Nobody knows what the connection is between Hif's disappearance and their arrival, but I feel that there is one. The Red Hexagon have advanced our work unbelievably, but at the same time…at the same time, things are not going as planned."

The Doctor was sitting with his arms folded, staring at Ronson in a rather uncharitable way. "And I suppose when the Red Hexagon women showed up, Davros just picked one out and ordered you to dissect her? And you followed his order?"

Ronson twitched, and spoke more slowly, pausing between each sentence. "No, it was before anyone had ever heard of them. I went to one of the specimen rooms as ordered. She was already dead. There was a tattoo across her forehead, where the laboratory animals are marked. It said, J29A. I think," Ronson wearily rubbed his face, "I rather think that Nyder killed her."

The Doctor mused, half to himself, "A neural transmission array sometimes decomposes after death. If Davros had never seen one, he may not have known what he was looking at. It can be used to link mind to mind, or mind to computer. Ah, or perhaps - mind to Dalek mind?"

Ronson shook his head. "No, the Dalek biosphere is much too toxic. None of the Red Hexagon members would ever go near it. You understand, they must be protected. They must!"

"The Red Hexagon - or the Kaled creatures?"

Ronson looked the Doctor straight in the eye, and spoke with quiet force. "If I believed that there were enough women to carry on the race, I would go into the Dalek incubator room and kill them all myself, with my bare hands. Even if it meant my own life - and it would. But there are not enough. We must survive, our people must survive!"

"As Daleks?" asked the Doctor. "As war machines, conditioned to kill?"

Ronson shook his head violently. "No, no! There must be another way, a way that our race can go on as themselves, not as the amoral monstrosities that Davros is making out of them!" He leaned forward urgently. "I need to get information about what is going on here out of the Bunker and to the Dome! If they knew the full extent of how Davros is perverting the Daleks, they would end the project and shut down the Bunker. I can't go myself, we are all watched, especially since Hif vanished."

The Doctor leaned forward as well, Sarah Jane mimicking his motion unconsciously. "Then let us help you. You get us out of here, help us escape, and we'll go to the Dome."

Ronson started going through his pockets, finally coming up with a notebook and a pen. "I can give you the names of people you need to contact. Politicians, members of the military, people with the power to stop Davros."

The Doctor beamed. "An excellent suggestion, and we can look for a friend of ours who may be there as well."

* * *

In the main laboratory, two Daleks were now  manoeuvring under the gaze of Davros and a group of the Elite. Nyder was standing at Davros' side; he still didn't quite trust these creatures, and kept a sharp eye on them. After a series of complicated moves, they both came to a halt facing Davros. One of the Daleks said, "We await your command."

In a tone eerily like that of his creations, Davros ordered, "You will evaluate the two specimens at the far end of this room."

The two Daleks turned and came close to the specimens, who were a younger scientist called Kavell and Second Laboratory Assistant, who were standing at attention side by side. The other scientists looked on with varying expressions of interest or concern. Gharman, head of the Scientific Elite, looked like he wanted to stop the evaluation; his hands were clenched into fists at his sides and he stared a bit too intensely at the Daleks.

Kavell whispered to the woman beside him, trying to move his lips as little as possible. "They could destroy us without a thought!"

"I think not," said Second Laboratory Assistant, her voice confident and very quiet.

The Daleks seemed to consult with one another, then they turned and rolled back to Davros.

"The specimens are Kaled adults, one male and one female. No anomalies to report," said one of the Daleks.

"Excellent. Disengage motive units," said Davros. At once the two Daleks stopped moving, their eye stalks and limbs drooping in a parody of rest.

Kavell drew a deep breath of relief, and Second Laboratory Assistant touched his arm. When he glanced at her, she smiled and said, "Well done, Kavell."

"Thank you Selaa," he replied, and his eyes followed her as she walked over to wait on Davros. Then Kavell's eyes met Nyder's, and he quickly looked away.

Second Laboratory Assistant stood before Davros as he delivered his instructions about further updates to the Dalek systems to the assembled scientists and technicians. When he was finished, and the Elite had moved back to their tasks, she said simply, "Your orders, sir?"

"Prepare a summary of the adjustments made to the Dalek deep radar and electrical sensing apparatus, and ready it for my review. You will also read and analyse the latest reports from the automated assembly project, paying particular attention to the elimination of redundancy in the automation procedure."

"Yes, sir. Permission to make a suggestion?"

"Your suggestions have always been of great value to my work."

Second Laboratory Assistant said, "There may be a more efficient way for your visual system to access the computer system, allowing you to review and analyse the data without having to have physical printouts generated. This also would have security applications: printouts could no longer be lost or incorrectly disposed of. The access device would be built specifically for you. Only you would have total access to the data."

"That is a very interesting idea," said Davros.

Nyder broke in, "I would want to review any such equipment before it would be used by Davros."

Second Laboratory Assistant looked at Nyder and smiled, to no effect. She dropped the smile and said, "All equipment will be fully tested and based on established protocols, of course. Davros, your permission to proceed?"

"Granted. Proceed as soon as the summaries are complete."

"I obey," she said, and left silently.

Nyder spoke to Davros, speaking low so that the scientists now examining the two inactive Daleks would not hear. "I am," he paused, looking for the right word, "concerned with the amount of influence the Red Hexagon have on the Elite."

"I do not share your concerns," said Davros. "Whether the Elite are motivated by fear of me, or affection," Davros twisted that word, made it sound like a curse, "for the Red Hexagon, the Dalek project will be completed. When the Daleks are ready, they will leave this Bunker and cleanse Skaro of my enemies forever. That is the only thing that is important."

* * *

 

Before Ronson took them to the lower levels of the Bunker, where he said they could escape using the ventilator ducts, he insisted on taking them to see the mutated creatures that were being encased in the Dalek travel machines.

The incubator room he showed them was closed off by a massive lead-lined door. Through a tiny vision port, the two prisoners peered in to see a room full of glass and metal bottles, where tentacled masses of lumpy flesh pulsated and writhed.

Ronson did not join them in looking. He said, "Unless you succeed, Doctor, this may be all that remains of our race in the future."

"I sincerely hope not, Ronson." The Doctor hit the vision port control himself, and a steel shutter came down, obscuring the Dalek incubation chamber.

The three of them proceeded to the lower level unchallenged; presumably the passing guards saw only one of the Elite taking two prisoners to be questioned or experimented on. They passed First Laboratory Assistant, who was carrying a coil of wire and an small metal loop studded with half spheres, as though in imitation of the outer shell of a Dalek. At least Sarah thought it was First, but Ronson said "Fola," and the woman nodded.

After the Assistant was gone, Sarah Jane asked Ronson, "Was that First Laboratory Assistant?"

"No, that's definitely Fourth Laboratory Assistant. We call her Fola for short," he replied. "She has a special skill for electronics."

The Doctor wondered aloud, "And what's your theory as to why the Red Hexagon women all look alike?"

Ronson shrugged. "I don't know. Davros was curious too, but he did tests and determined that they were not genetically identical."

And apparently that solved matters for Ronson. Sarah Jane thought there must be more to it than that, but maybe not. If there were so few women, such a small population, it stood to reason that all their children would start to look alike. Sarah had a sudden nasty thought and shivered, wondering how many of the Mutos were due to radiation, and how many were from inbreeding.

"This is it," said Ronson, stopping them by a large metal grille set waist-high in the corridor. While Sarah kept a lookout, the Doctor and Ronson worked to pry the grille loose and set it aside. The revealed ventilation duct was certainly big enough to crawl through, but it was a little disturbing that Sarah couldn't see the end of it.

Ronson was scribbling a last few names in his notebook. "Here," he said, pressing it into the Doctor's hand. "There's one last thing you should know about your escape route. The ventilation shaft leads out into a series of caves, caves where some of Davros' earlier experimental animals are confined."

"We'll watch our step," said the Doctor with more confidence than Sarah felt.

"Please be careful," pleaded Ronson. "And the notebook-"

"Don't worry, I won't let it fall into the wrong hands." With that reassurance, the Doctor crawled into the duct, followed by Sarah Jane. Ronson quickly levered the cover back into place and then walked away.

 

* * *

 

"We should shoot him," said the youngest woman, hustling Harry Sullivan down the Dome corridor.

"Be quiet," said one of the other three. "We have questions to ask him first."

Harry had questions too. "Why did you shoot that man? He wasn't threatening you!"

"We want no men here," the youngest woman actually hissed. She glared at Harry with an expression of loathing, and he flinched. What had he ever done to this girl?

"Ladies, please!" came a shout from down the corridor. "That man is our guest! Please release him!" Behind the shouting, Harry could still hear the strange wail, eyiyiyiyi. Maybe it was the alarum signal.

"He's ours now!" shouted one of the older women.

"He's a doctor, we need him out here!" came the reply from the distance.

The older woman turned and fired down the corridor. The explosion of the gunshot was shockingly loud in the enclosed space. "Keep back!"

There was a heavy wall that looked reinforced closing the corridor in front of them, with a single door in it. The area around it was marked, with streaks and gashes in the floor and walls, as though the area had been the site of some battle. Harry and his captors scooted through, and the massive door shut behind them with the grinding of metal on metal.


	4. Escape!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: discussion of culling of women.

The crawl through the ducts was painful for both of the escaping prisoners. The corners of the joins had to be carefully gotten over, because they were sharp, and Sarah Jane banged her head on one or two sharp corners in the dark. She imagined that the Doctor was having a worse time of it though. Fortunately he had recoiled his extremely long scarf closer to his neck before entering the duct, or it probably would have tied them both into knots.

To distract herself, she said, "What was that you meant to say about the Dalek sensory array? Just before Ronson came in."

The Doctor's voice came from ahead of her, echoing sharply against the metal sides of the duct. "Oh? Well, what I was going to say was, maybe there's nothing wrong with the Dalek sensor array. Maybe there really were three aliens in that room."

Sarah stopped crawling for a beat. "You mean the Assistants are…"

"Are not just what they appear to be, yes."

Sarah was considering this when she bumped into the Doctor's feet.

"What?" she said.

"We're here. I'm getting the grill off," said the Doctor as he worked at the metal frame with his fingertips.

"Oh. Funny, I thought it would smell mustier or something," said Sarah.

"What?" replied the Doctor, as the grille fell down with a clang. He paused before crawling out, and said, "You're right, for a cave full of dangerous experimental animals it seems quite hygienic."

The Doctor crawled out and helped Sarah to slither free as well. They were in a natural cavern, with rough stone walls and stalactites hanging down. The only light came in irregular patches from holes in the roof.

Sarah Jane looked down and around, and said, "Doctor! Look at the floor!"

"Sarah, we have to get moving, that cell could be checked at any time." The Doctor started heading for what might be a brighter light at the end of the cave, and Sarah followed, protesting.

"I know, but there aren't any animal tracks or anything! It's all perfectly clean."

"What?" said the Doctor, ducking around the stalactites. They were in a brighter spot at the moment, and he fell to one knee and looked around. As though to himself, he said, "No spoor, no hairs, not even a leaf or a twig. And raked smooth." He ran his fingers through the sand; let it trickle smoothly from his fist. "Clean as a tourist beach - or a laboratory."

"Why would - OUCH!" Sarah's footstep had gone between two long white ridges in the floor, one of which had dislodged and barked her shin. Easily pulling her foot loose, she looked to see what had hit her - and saw it was a giant clamshell. And beside it was a cluster of other shells, some closed, some fallen open.

"Look at these!"

The Doctor examined one. "Only the shells left, the animals themselves are gone.

"Must have made quite a dish of chowder," Sarah joked.

The Doctor spoke seriously. "Sarah, I think that all the organic matter, living or dead, has been stripped out of these caves."

"By what?"

"I don't know. A predator? Some experiment of Davros'?"

"But then Ronson would have told us about it - wouldn't he?"

"I get the impression that Davros is not entirely forthcoming with his Elite as to the end results of their work. We should get out of here. As quickly as we can, and get to the Dome."

* * *

When the door slammed shut behind Harry Sullivan, he found himself in a square white room, surrounded by women. Young women, most of them with dark hair draped over their white-robed shoulders. And they all stared at Harry with the strangest mix of hatred and interest on their faces.

And also, he couldn't help but notice, they were almost all pregnant. That is, presuming that Kaled pregnancy looked like human pregnancy. It was as unnerving to be surrounded by all those high round bellies, as it was to be surrounded by those staring faces.

There was also the fact that the majority of them were carrying guns.

"Ah, well. Good morning, or afternoon. Ladies." Harry tried to straighten his clothes a bit, ran his hand through his hair. "Is there something I can do for you?" He was desperately combing through his mind for applicable knowledge - and coming up rather short. He was a Navy doctor, blast it all, he wasn't used to working on pregnant women en masse. Surely there must be a doctor here who would be more qualified!

The women who had dragged him in were having a fierce discussion with the others, quietly hissing their words. Harry couldn't make out what they were saying. They seemed to reach an agreement, and the older woman who had helped bring him in, and shouted "Keep back!" while firing her rifle, he couldn't forget that, came close to him.

Harry held out his hand, smiled, and said, "Hello, I don't believe we had time to introduce ourselves. I'm Doctor Harry Sullivan." He almost said Lieutenant, but thought that claiming rank on an alien battlefield might not be the wisest thing to do.

The woman looked at his hand, then briefly touched her palm to his and snatched her hand away, as though he was hot and would burn her.

Harry was keenly aware that the youngest woman was watching him, and that her gun was ready to sweep up and fire in an instant. So, after a pause, he politely withdrew his hand.

The older women said, "You are a doctor? But you are not a Kaled doctor!"

The other women muttered, and one of them hissed, "A Thal!"

"No, no, I'm not a Thal." Harry had talked to some of the surgeons during his marathon operating theatre sessions, about who was who in this war. "But I'm not a Kaled either, that's true. I'm sort of a travelling doctor."

"Are you from an island?" came a question from someone in the back of the group.

"Well," England technically was an island of course, "well, yes I am."

"An island doctor, but you are working with the Daughters?"

"Oh, you mean the young ladies outside who all look alike? Yes, and really, they're wonderful doctors, some of them, and if you need medical assistance I'm sure they are much more qualif-"

"We do not trust them!" snapped the young woman. "How can they really be doctors? How could Kaled women be trained to become doctors?"

There were calls of agreement from the rest of the group. Then a stirring, as someone came forward and whispered in the older woman's ear. Harry sincerely hoped she wasn't whispering something like, "Twenty of us just had our waters break."

The older woman turned back to Harry, and touched his chest with one hand, briefly, and then pulled back again. "My name is Caso," she said. "Come with me."

As Harry was hustled further into the series of white rooms behind Caso, he saw bunks, couches, and everywhere women, nothing but women. And mostly pregnant women.

But where were the children? No babies in arms, no sounds of playing, just women in white robes. Their hard faces watching him as he was swept along in Caso's wake. Harry felt like a complete alien, which of course he was. It was a relief to be brought into a room with only one other woman in it.

She was the oldest woman he had seen so far, with touches of visible grey in her hair. She was lying on a table in the middle of the bare room, covered with a blanket to her neck, and she was still, much too still.

"This is Dynna. Heal her!" Caso commanded.

"What?" He tried to sound reasonable. "But look, I need more information, before I can find out what's wrong with her."

Harry went to the table and took Dynna's wrist in his hand; her pulse beat strong and slow. He watched the rise and fall of her chest for a moment, timing her breathing, and then asked Caso, "How long has she been like this?"

"Two days," said Caso. Behind her, the younger woman, the one who didn't want men here, slipped into the room and took up a position beside the doorway, her eyes boring into Harry.

"She's been unconscious for two days and you didn't call a doctor?" Harry said. "Why ever not?"

"We cannot bring a doctor here. Heal her!" said Caso again.

Harry put down Dynna's wrist, and pressed his hands in front of himself, palm to palm. Get a grip, he ordered himself, she's a patient now. Find out what's wrong with her, and then convince the other women that they have to send for a Kaled doctor, to get her proper treatment. He drew himself together, pushed away his weariness.

"Has she woken or spoken at all?"

"No," said Caso, watching closely as Harry gently probed around the woman's neck.

"No bruises that I can see. Did she have a fall in the last few days, or strike her head?"

"No."

"Did she complain of pain or numbness in her chest, or down one arm?"

"No," said Caso again.

Gently, Harry raised one of Dynna's eyelids; he didn't have a flashlight to shine in her eye, but he could block the overhead light with his hand and then move it aside. He saw her pupil contract, and the same thing happened when he looked into her other eye.

"Did she say she had a headache, or a sudden pain in her head? Slackness to the muscles of one side of her face or body?"

"No, she just was found like this."

"Well, I'm not an expert at Kaled physiognomy, but for one of my," he almost said 'species', "people, I would think it could be a stroke. A burst blood vessel in the brain. Which means that you must to get her to a hospital. She can't be treated here, she needs tests, X-rays or imaging, maybe surgery."

"You haven't asked the important question," said the younger woman, coming forward a pace, her hands white-knuckled on the gun.

"Koll, be silent," said Caso, frowning. Then she looked at Harry, narrow-eyed, and said slowly, "But it's true, you haven't asked the question, the one the doctors always ask."

Harry rolled one hand as though drawing out her answer. "And, that question is?"

"How long since she last carried a child to term?"

"Good heavens, Dynna isn't pregnant now, is she?" Harry spun and looked at the prone women, surely she was too old.

"No," said Caso from behind him. "It has been four years since she last bore."

Harry sighed, "Well, that's a relief." He turned back, to find both Caso and Koll staring at him, slack-jawed, as though he had said something completely shocking. He hadn't, had he?

"What did I say?" he asked, feeling a little helpless. More than a little actually.

"Don't you think she should be culled?" said Koll.

Harry's feeling of helplessness suddenly flashed over into anger. He strode to Koll and shoved her gun barrel aside when she raised it to him. Holding the gun pointed away from him, he stared into her angry girlish face and said, forcefully, "Now look. I don't know how you do things here, but where I come from, we don't kill people just for being old or injured!" He glared at Koll, and slowly let go of the gun barrel. Then he spun on his heel and went back to Dynna.

As he raised one of her arms and dropped it (it dropped loosely, no tension), he asked Caso, "Is that why you won't call the Kaled doctors for her? Because she'd be culled?"

"All women too old to bear are culled, it means more food and water for the young," said Caso, as though it were obvious. "But you do not believe that?"

"No, I do not! It's abominable, it's a disgrace. But," and he stopped. How could he get this women the sort of medical care she needed, if the doctors here would kill her? "Please, let me go ask the Daughters for help, I'm sure they wouldn't harm her." He turned with his eyes suddenly alight with hope. "I know they won't! One of them, Tenth Healer, was telling a blind soldier who'd been brought in that he would not be culled, not sent back. You have to trust someone, you have to help her! Let me get her help. Please."

A hand closed over Harry Sullivan's arm; he turned and looked down, into Dynna's open eyes. Slowly, she pulled herself into a seated position, staring at Harry all the time. She seemed wide awake, but was silent.

"Careful, madam, Dynna," Harry said, patting her hand where it was gripping his arm with almost painful force. "I'm a doctor, you'll be all right now. Can you understand me?"

She nodded, slowly.

"I need to ask you some questions, please, so we can determine what-"

"I heard you," said Dynna, quietly.

"You heard me. You were conscious but you couldn't move, then?"

"I could move." As though to prove it, Dynna swung her legs off the table and stood, staring up at Harry.

Harry frowned, then turned and looked at the other women. "This was a test, wasn't it?"

"You passed," said Dynna. Without another word, she swept outside, followed by Caso. But when Harry tentatively moved to follow, Koll blocked his way. Her hands were still white on the gun barrel.

"I hate you," she said, for no apparent reason. Then she gave her reasons. "I hate men, for keeping us here, not letting us out to fight our enemies! Not letting us learn! I hate that they treat us like machines, like things for making babies." Koll didn't seem to  realise it, but she was starting to cry. "I wish I was a man! I wish I could go out there and kill them all, kill the Thals, die with glory! I thought that when the Daughters gave us guns, we would all leave here, but no. Dynna and the other oldest, they said we should wait and see, that maybe the Daughters were right, that maybe things could change. But I don't believe it! Men are evil! Men care nothing for women, nothing!"

Very gently, with one hand, Harry pushed aside the gun barrel that Koll had pressed against his chest during this venomous tirade. He carefully took the gun out of her hand, and leaned it against the wall behind her. Then he took her by the arms and looked down at her, at her tearful face. What could he do, what could he possibly do, to show her that it didn't have to be like that?

In desperation, he kissed her. It seemed the only thing he could do for her.

From her reaction, it was more than enough.

 

* * *

The Doctor and Sarah Jane wove through the caverns and finally fetched up at a corroded series of metal bars, blocking off the cave entrance. The Doctor reached out to touch one of them, wiggled it back and forth to see how easy it would be to break it free.

He touched another bar, and a third. Sarah was wondering if she should offer to help when the Doctor stuck his arm through the bars and swept them to one side like a curtain: they were strung along a rail or a wire at the top of the entrance frame, and slid right aside without effort.

"It looks like somebody has been using this entrance, and doesn't want it to be known," said the Doctor, brushing the rust off his coat sleeve.

"You're right. Look down," and Sarah Jane pointed to the spread of overlapping footprints in the sand and mud at the entrance to the caves. The Doctor took a few steps, examining the tracks. Placing his generous foot beside one of them, he noted that the tracks were made by rather small feet.

"Well, which direction now?" asked Sarah.

The Doctor looked around: they were in a gloomy valley, surrounded by low crumbling dirt hills. There were pieces of rusted iron debris here and there, and lying sadly in the shadows was a line of huddled shapes in Kaled uniforms, dirty and windblown. Nobody even to bury them. There were several possible directions to head, but the Doctor noted that the footprints from the cave entrance all went towards the left.

"I think that way, but just in case, I should get up to the top of the hill and see which way it is to the Dome," said the Doctor, suiting actions to words and heading for the slanting slope in front of them. He paused at the foot of it, looking up to judge the best path to the top - and a hand closed over his ankle!

He looked down. One of the Kaled corpses looked up at him, with live eyes behind its filthy gas mask, and its gloved hand was tightly around the Doctor's ankle. With a jerk it threw the Doctor to the ground - or tried to: the Doctor kicked free and stumbled backwards, towards Sarah, who was screaming. With good reason: the corpses were all moving, rising to their feet, turning their masked faces to the  travellers .

And as they moved forward they wailed, their voices weirdly muffled and distorted by the gasmasks. Eyiyiyiyiyi …

"Run!" said the Doctor, and he did. Sarah was close behind him, but had only gone a few steps before another corpse rose and caged her in its arms. She screamed, fighting. The Doctor paused for an agonised moment, but there were too many of them, and he had to run.

But he had a plan: even as he ran, he knew he had to get rid of Ronson's incriminating notebook. He ran, dodging between the low hills, trying to draw some of his attackers away, then circle around and get back to Sarah. When one of the pursuing corpses drew too close, he turned and threw himself on it, knocking them both to the ground in a flurry of Venusian aikido - and at the same time thrusting the notebook deep into a hole in the ground.

He rolled back to his feet, feinted, dodged between two hills - and he was back at the entrance to the caves. Sarah Jane was being held by two of the corpses, and more of them waited for him. He threw himself into the mass of them, fighting to get through, but they clung to his limbs and dragged him down. The eyyiyiyiyi suddenly stopped, all at once, and Sarah caught her breath.

Then they dragged the Doctor to his feet. Sarah gasped in relief; except for being rather more dishevelled than usual, the Doctor seemed unharmed. The corpses marched him over to Sarah Jane. They stood their captives side by side, and she asked, "Who are these people? Deserters?"

"They're guards in disguise, I think."

"The prisoners are not to go out," said a muffled voice from behind them. They turned, or rather were turned by their captors, to face a woman standing in the entrance to the cave. She was wearing the same grey uniform as the Laboratory Assistant wore, but with a plain black armband. Her head was enclosed in a gasmask.

One of their captors pulled off its mask - her mask. Instead of a corpse, or a zombie, the face of a young woman with black hair was revealed. She snarled, "We're trying to get them back in! And you are not supposed to be out here either."

The Doctor was quickly evaluating the features of the 'corpse': there were slight differences in the set of her nostrils and ears, but she was practically identical to the other women they had seen. He said cheerily, "Excuse me, but do you have a sister working as First Laboratory Assistant?"

"And Third Outer Speaker, you look just like her," added Sarah, staring fascinated.

The woman cut her eyes at the Doctor. "Just a coincidence, I should think. Security Liaison, can you take them back? Now?"

"Oh, but we really couldn't dream of going back. We have urgent business in the Dome," said the Doctor.

"Urgent business with whom?" Security Liaison asked, and then paused, but no answer was forthcoming. One of the disguised guards stepped towards her and handed her the dirty, rolled-up notebook that the Doctor had hidden - apparently, not hidden well enough. She examined the notebook's cover, but did not open it.

"Interesting," she finally said, looking up at the two captives. "Well, I have received no orders from Davros that you are to be released, so I am afraid that I must see you back to your cell. Will you come quietly or do I need to have your legs broken?" She said this as casually as if she was offering them a choice of lemon or sugar for their tea.

"Well, I guess our urgent business will have to wait," said the Doctor. Inside he was kicking himself for not finding a way to destroy the notebook.

Security Liaison turned and went back into the cave. The Doctor and Sarah Jane were shoved after her, with two guards bringing up the rear. The iron bars were drawn back over the door of the cave with a rattle.

Once they were all inside the cave, the Security Liaison paused and peeled off her gas mask.

"Shouldn't do that," said one of the guards. Her voice was muffled by her own gas mask.

"I'm inside the perimeter and the wind is from the south," Security Liaison replied, turning to examine her prisoners. Somehow Sarah Jane was not surprised to see that she, again, was almost identical to the other women. But unlike the smiling Thoss and Laboratory Assistants, her face was still and solemn.

"Are you called Selia or Esselle?" Sarah asked brightly. "I thought the initials of Security Liaison, well, that seems to be the way your names run," and her voice stumbled as the other woman looked back with an expressionless face.

"I am called Security Liaison," she said, and looked Sarah over, and did not seem very enthused with what she saw. She then turned her attention to the tall Time Lord.

She said to the Doctor, "I am impressed by your resourcefulness. And it is doubly impressive that you would escape without assistance." She paused, waiting for the Doctor's answer.

The Doctor shrugged and smiled in a deprecating way. "I've never been one to just stay put. I myself am impressed by your guard system. Disguised as corpses, that is very ingenious. If a bit gruesome."

"War is a gruesome business. Right now," Security Liaison held up the notebook by the spine, fanned its pages to dislodge a rain of dirt, "I need a light."

An electric torch was offered to her handle-first; she looked at the guard offering it with a bland expression.

"A match."

A box of matches was handed to her, and she lit one and held it close to the pages of the open notebook, squinting.

"Now if only I could read this - oh." The page has caught alight, and the Doctor and Sarah Jane looked at each other as she gently fanned the flames higher. "How very clumsy of me, this notebook is burning. Dear me. It looks like the entire thing will be consumed."

Sarah shivered; the words were jovial but the tone was absolutely flat and uninflected, like a machine's.

The last bits of the notebook's pages fluttered to the ground; Security Liaison said, "So much for fire hazards." She carefully brushed out the ash from the spine of the notebook, and tucked it under her arm.

She addressed her prisoners. "It was absent-minded of someone to leave you wandering about. Would you mind terribly if I just tucked you back into your cell? We certainly don't want to get anyone into trouble, now do we."

"Not more ducts," groaned Sarah Jane as she was hustled through the cave. "I've seen more ducts in the last few days than I could shake a stick at!"

The cave was getting very dark, and the echoes of their footsteps sounded like the walls were drawing closer. The sand underneath their feet was gone, and they were walking on solid rock. The Doctor reached out one arm to touch the wall and found it smooth and flat under his fingertips.

"We're in a tunnel," he said, stopping: the guard behind him urged him forward. "Sarah, feel the wall on your side."

"You're right!" she exclaimed out of the blackness. "It's smooth as glass!"

Security Liaison spoke from somewhere in front of them, "I don't like ducts. Mind your eyes, it's bright in here." A high, narrow doorway widened in front of them, and the  travellers stepped forward into the blazing light.

The blazing light was actually quite normal light, and a familiar setting.

They were back in their cell!

The Doctor whirled and lunged for the door - the wall actually, but it was closed and as solid seeming as ever. He started patting along the wall, testing the seams, trying to find the way to open it from his side.

"Well!" said Sarah Jane, sitting down on one of the bunks. "In again and out again and without a by-your-leave!"

"We're trapped again, you mean," said the Doctor. "This whole wall opened, but now it feels as solid as ever. If only I had my sonic screwdriver!"

"Ronson didn't warn us about guards."

The Doctor kept patting at the wall. "He might not have known."

Sarah was shaking her head back and forth slowly, as though she could shake her thoughts into order. "It doesn't make any sense! If Kaled women are vital, why are they outside where it's so poisoned and dangerous? And why would they burn the notebook?"

"I don't know." The Doctor sat down heavily on the other bunk, and thought aloud. "A secret society of women, who seem to be working against the military, and both for AND against the Elite. With neural transmission technology - very advanced, that. I definitely get the impression they are not native to this planet. But if Davros has tested them genetically, they can't be aliens either."

"And the Red Hexagon women are all identical, yet they aren't clones." Sarah Jane had recently had a rather nasty encounter with a Sontaran, and it had made her rather badly disposed towards clones for the moment.

"Not exactly identical. I think Security Liaison is at least two  centimetres shorter than First Laboratory Assistant. There are clearly things going on here that we don't understand," mused the Doctor. "Maybe even Davros doesn't understand them. Don't tell him I said that, though."

Sarah looked up, and saw the Doctor's brilliant smile. Despite it all, she had to smile back.


	5. The Turning of the Wheel

Ronson was sitting at his desk in the main laboratory, working on an analysis of the Dalek vision system. Davros was insisting on a new and even more stringent set of sensitivity levels to be met, impossibly soon.

What Ronson really wanted to do was examine the aliens' possessions, but the box sitting at his elbow might as well be in the Thal Dome. He had a schedule to meet, and the guards were watching, always. And even if the guards might be fooled as to what he was actually working on, Nyder would not be.

Something was tapped on the desk in front of him. He looked up and saw that the thing was his notebook.

The notebook that he had entrusted to the aliens, to take to the Dome. A notebook full of names of Davros' enemies, written in Ronson's handwriting. That notebook might as well be his execution order if Davros ever saw it.

He looked further up, sick to his stomach, certain he would be facing some guard, or worse yet, Nyder himself.

It was one of the Laboratory Assistants. Third, he thought, but he couldn't tell. She tapped the notebook on the desk again, to draw his attention, but his eyes were locked on her face. Pleading eyes.

Finally, she pointed down with her free hand, and Ronson's gaze fell back to the notebook as she opened it - and a few cinders dropped out. The notebook had been burned, only the cover was intact.

"Scientist Ronson," said the woman, with a charming smile. "There are procedures in place for the disposal of confidential laboratory information."

Ronson swallowed, and then gathered himself back together. Reprieve! She must have found the burnt notebook, and not seen the dangerous information it contained. Had contained. But that meant that something had happened to the Doctor.

"I understand." He didn't really, but it seemed the safest thing to say. He reached out for the notebook and she pulled it back for a moment. Then she relented and let him have it, but as he put it at his side, she said in a lower voice, almost a whisper, "Procedures for prisoner handling are also in place."

He froze, and closed his eyes.

"The prisoners are back in their cell. Quite safe."

Ronson opened his eyes and looked up at her, and whispered sharply, "They are not safe here!"

"They are safe." Over her shoulder, Ronson saw Gharman enter the laboratory. Instantly the Laboratory Assistant moved to another desk, helping Kavell sort through a series of delicate test results that needed comparison.

Ronson stared back at his work, the words and numbers a meaningless jumble to his eyes. He was keenly aware, though, of Gharman looking around the laboratory, as though searching for someone, and then leaving. Ronson and Gharman had had a very interesting conversation about the Doctor's information yesterday evening, in private, on one of the lower levels. Ronson wanted to talk to Gharman again, and soon. He thought that he could be trusted; more importantly, he thought that Gharman was as revolted by Davros' amoral twisting of their work as he himself was.

He swept the notebook cover into a drawer on his desk, reminding himself to take it down to the incinerator and have it destroyed at the end of the shift. Then he turned back to the work he hated.

 

* * *

Gharman was walking down a Bunker corridor, with a folder under his arm and a slightly strained look on his face. He saw Nyder walking ahead of him and, after quickly looking around to see that nobody else was in sight, hissed, "Nyder!"

The Security Commander turned, and said "What is it, Gharman?" but almost before he could finish, Gharman had taken him by the elbow and was turning him about, down the corridor.

"Have you been in Davros' office this morning?" asked Gharman, quietly.

Nyder dug in his heels, literally, stopping the larger man. "No. What's happened? What …?" and he started to dart forward - only to be held back again by Gharman.

Gharman muttered, "Something's happened, something I don't understand. I don't believe that Davros is in any danger, but you should judge for yourself."

They were coming up on the office door, and as Nyder was opening it, Gharman said, "I hope that you can explain this to me."

Nyder entered, and was immediately silenced by what he saw there. Gharman came up behind him, after making sure the door had closed, and said, "So you didn't know?"

"No!" answered Nyder, staring at the seated figures in front of the desk.

It was Davros and - by the armband, Security Liaison. Davros was motionless, with his remaining hand resting atop a metal box that was wired directly into his support chair. The top of the box had an illuminated grid and several mechanical dials, and Davros' twitching fingers moved over them in a deliberate pattern.

The Red Hexagon woman seated beside him had a metal band around her head, covering her eyes and nose. The band was studded with Dalek-style sensory hemispheres, and crowned with an irregular series of metal strands that seemed to be touching her scalp. A single bundle of electrical cables draped over Security Liaison's shoulder, and led to the box connected to Davros' chair; a second cable came out of the box and snaked into Davros' desk, where it presumably was wired into his computer terminal - and from there, the mainframe itself.

They both sat there, perfectly still; Gharman shivered inside when he noticed that Security Liaison's left arm hung limp at her side, while her right hand was cocked forward as though in imitation of Davros.

Nyder fumed; this was obviously the 'access device' that Second Laboratory Assistant had received permission to work on. But he, Nyder, had never given her permission to complete it, and certainly not to test it! And why should there be wires leading to Security Liaison?

"Davros," said Nyder in a normal tone, and then louder, "Davros!" There was no reaction, and he and Gharman looked at each other.

"What should we do?" asked Gharman. "If we just break the connection, I have no idea what would happen." He hesitantly waved his hand in front of Davros' optical implant; it stayed dark and there was no other response.

Davros had arranged that his own vital signs could be broadcast externally to any screen in the laboratory, as an emergency medical monitoring system. Nyder touched a control on the support chair, and both men turned to look as a wall screen came alight with a flickering jumble of lines.

"Biological functions normal. Mechanical functions as well. His brain waves indicate that he's awake. But he isn't responding to us, why?" said Nyder a little helplessly.

"Should I page his medical support team?" asked Gharman. Then he suddenly stiffened, and said, "Ronson!"

"Ronson what?" asked Nyder. He'd never liked Ronson, rather a weak reed for one of the Elite.

"Ronson said that the aliens recognised the metal implants that all the Assistants have. And her too," replied Gharman. "That it was a - a neural transmission array." He stared again at the metal band around Security Liaison's head, and the metal probes rising up from it.

Nyder's lips went white with anger. "She's tampering with Davros' mind, is that what you are telling me!"

"I don't know, I don't know," said Gharman, trying to calm Nyder down. "But the aliens might."

Nyder ordered, "Get a Laboratory Assistant in here - no, I'll get the Assistant. Get the aliens!"

When the Doctor and Sarah were shown abruptly into Davros' office, they found Nyder literally twisting a Laboratory Assistant's arm behind her back, pulling her up onto her toes. "Explain-" and he halted, turning to glare at them.

Gharman almost leaped forward, but restrained himself. "Let her go, Commander," he snapped instead. "The Doctor is here, question him."

Nyder let go of the Assistant's arm, and transferred his grip lightning-fast to her shoulder.

The Assistant spoke a little breathlessly. "Davros insisted that the access device be given to him at once, as soon as the mechanical testing was completed. You could not expect us to disobey him. Security Liaison was tasked to show him the device, and she is doing so."

She waited. Slowly, Nyder loosened his grip; as soon as the hand was gone from her shoulder, the Assistant moved out of reach.

She slipped out the door and the furious Commander rounded on the Doctor.

"What is she doing to him?"

"Hmm," said the Doctor, taking in the spectacle of the two immobile figures, and examining the bundle of wires going to Davros' desk and computer. "This looks like it's allowing Davros to directly access your computer systems."

Gharman shook his head in disagreement. "Impossible. We investigated that possibility years ago. A data access system would take a room full of equipment and Davros would have to be permanently connected to it. You can't expect me to believe that little thing," he pointed to the box under Davros' hand, "is a data access device."

"Maybe not." The Doctor looked at the box under Davros' hand, squatting on his heels. He was careful not to touch it. "But it might be half of one, with her brain as the other half." The Doctor rose and turned his attention to the seated woman, walking around her and staring at her hair, and the metal cables threaded through it, like a slightly demented barber. "Could be, could be - this would just be to interface with all of her contacts at once."

"Neural contacts?" asked Gharman.

"Yes, her neural transmission array. Surely you don't think she would drill holes in her skull for mere decoration?"

Gharman said thoughtfully, "So she can actually directly transmit thought?"

Nyder asked sharply, "What is she doing to Davros?"

"Well, she might have overridden his sensory inputs, but I doubt that she can directly influence his thoughts. His interface with his support chair is mostly through his motor cortex, correct?"

"It is impolite to talk about people as though they were not even present," said Security Liaison; at least her mouth moved as though she was talking, but her voice rang out through Davros' audio system in an eerie mechanical echo of itself. Everyone in the room instantly focused on the seated woman - except for Davros.

Nyder spoke icily, "You knew we were here, why did you not reply?"

"You never spoke to me, you only addressed Davros. Who, as you may have noticed, is ignoring you."

"You will stop what you are doing now and let him go. That is an order," said Nyder, stepping closer and reaching for her head. Security Liaison's hand came up and gestured for him to stop; surprisingly, he did so.

She coughed, and this time when she spoke her voice came out of her throat, not through Davros' audio unit. "I am not holding him, Commander. It is Davros who is holding me, demanding that I let him access more and more data, faster and faster. Working his way deeper into the system, tapping more files simultaneously."

Security Liaison's left hand seemed to awaken, and reached over to touch Davros' dry and shivering wrist. A feather touch, and then she moved her hand away.

"He is not going to appreciate being parted from this connection. Are you absolutely certain, Commander, that I should stop the data flow, against Davros' direct orders?"

Gharman frowned. "Haven't you stopped it now?"

"No, Chief Scientist Gharman. I am coordinating Davros' data requests, collating and transmitting the information, and talking to you."

But can she rub her tummy and pat herself on the back? Sarah couldn't help but wonder to herself.

Davros had not reacted to Security Liaison's speech or actions, or to those of anyone else in the room; his right hand still danced its tiny patterns over the access device.

"If Davros orders it," Nyder paused, then continued, "but I must hear the order directly from him."

Liaison stood, still eerily blindfolded by the metal circlet. She reached out with her left hand towards the access device; then she paused, and said, "All things considered, I think I'd better give him the right hand to mangle if he does."

"Mangle?" said Gharman.

"As Davros pleases. Commander, the process to put this unit into soft shutdown, against Davros' wishes, is to slide your hand UNDER his hand," as she spoke she did this, " push the two buttons on the left and right side, and then try to get your hand away beforRRRR!"

RRRR! was in reaction to Davros' hand clamping down on hers, hard; Security Liaison's mouth grimaced in pain. The Doctor started forward to help; Nyder turned and shoved him back to stop him from interfering.

"Stop! You will reactivate the access device at once!" shouted Davros.

"Please repeat your order to Commander Nyder and Chief Scientist Gharman, that you are to be left in direct contact with the computer systems until you order otherwise," said Security Liaison in an icy tone much like that of Nyder. "You did not schedule a replacement Red Hexagon member when you initiated the connection last night, and I will need to take a rest period soon or the integrity of the transmitted data will suffer."

"Last night?" Davros' head bobbed, and he let go of Liaison's right hand, she took it back with a will and started rubbing at it, testing the fingers. "I have been here all night? Why did you not inform me!"

"I tried."

Davros seemed to come more to himself, and finally noticed that there were others in his office.

"Gharman. How long have … what are you doing here?"

"We - had a morning meeting, Davros."

"It is unimportant. Nyder, I have just discovered that there are large sections of data in the mainframe computer that have never been properly reviewed by me. Some of it has been brought from the Dome by the Red Hexagon. I will be reviewing it for the next … until I am finished with my review. Security Liaison."

"Sir," she said, as she twisted something in her hand back into place with a wet noise. Sarah winced.

"You will print out Section Three, Subsection K of these documents, and give them to Commander Nyder for review and processing. Instruct him on the personality wheel coding. Gharman, ask one of the Assistants to give you the Section Seven, Subsection C documents, they are to be printed out and distributed to the staff for review. Security Liaison, you will return here and recreate the linkage, or can another Red Hexagon member do it?"

"Any Red Hexagon member will be able to maintain the linkage for you, sir." She removed the metal circlet and put it on Davros' desk, and ran her fingers through her hair. Coils of silver wire fell in a clatter around her feet. She picked them up and started coiling them, using her wounded hand a bit awkwardly.

This was the first time that Sarah Jane had seen Nyder and Security Liaison in the same room, and she was struck by how perfectly alike they were. Not alike looking, though they both had dark hair and hazel eyes. Right now she looked rather peaked - understandable, if she had been kept awake all night. But posture, bearing, intonation: Security Liaison was either living proof that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery or - or something else.

"That wouldn't be the Threm personality wheel system, would it?" The Doctor smiled engagingly. "I've always thought it was a wonderful method of analysis. If somewhat vulnerable to atmospheric variations."

Security Liaison looked at the Doctor without the slightest flicker of recognition. "The Threm are alien?"

"Quite, they're a very hospitable folk-"

"Then the Kaled system will naturally be superior," said Nyder without the slightest trace of irony.

"Really? May I see it? I'm always fascinated by the superior way of doing things," said the Doctor.

Commander Nyder paused for a moment, clearly thinking of just stuffing them back into their cells. On the other hand, the scientific Elite had been very intrigued with the technical information given by this alien during interrogation; perhaps the Doctor could give more information now. Finally he snapped, "Come with me!"

In the main laboratory, Commander Nyder picked up a folder on what was presumably his desk and leafed through it, frowning.

"You will explain how you managed to get this printed out, when you have not left my side, nor spoken to anyone, since leaving Davros' office," he said, bending a most sinister gaze on Security Liaison.

"I was still linked to the computer when Davros made the request. I thought it would be simplest to send the message directly."

"These are all personnel files, Bunker personnel. With charts," said Nyder, holding up what looked like a colour wheel printed on clear plastic film.

"Yes," said Security Liaison. "The Kaled personality wheel system," she cast a sharp look at the Doctor, who looked blank-faced in return, "is a visual representation of the emotions and characteristics of a Kaled mind. By feeding information on a Kaled's background and habits into a computer program, you can instantly generate output that will allow you to visually analyse their personality structure."

Nyder was reading from a sheet. "Red, green, violet … this is ridiculous, a child's game!"

Security Liaison shook out another folder on the desk, and pulled out a transparency with a very complicated colour wheel on it: streaks of red and green, black bars, all focussing in on a dark  centre . It was like the pupil of an eye. She carefully held her hand over the bottom of the page, obscuring some text there, and said, "Who is this, then?"

Nyder looked at the sheet, then down at the key in his hand. He reached out with one gloved fingertip to trace a pale-orange streak around the upper half of the wheel, and then said, "Frenton."

Security Liaison moved her hand from the sheet. "Frenton. Most impressive, Commander. The personality wheel is a tool for detecting emotional instability, potential for violence, and changes due to stress. Davros requested the system for use in the Dalek conditioning program; we tested the program's accuracy by feeding in data on Bunker personnel. The results were - interesting."

Sarah Jane wondered what the rest of the Elite were making of this; she turned her head, and saw them riveted on papers of their own that Gharman was handing out - presumably the mysterious Section Seven, Subsection C papers. Ronson was there, and was paying no attention to his paperwork. Instead he was looking at the two prisoners with a stricken expression. Sarah Jane made a 'shush' gesture, finger to lips, and Ronson looked back to his papers.

The Doctor was leafing through the transparencies on the desk, and came up with a rather startling one; the wheel shape was mostly empty, with a few sharp-edged wedges of yellow and purple. "This one doesn't seem to have printed out correctly, or else I'm reading it wrong," mused the Doctor. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was-"

"Commander Nyder."

The Doctor looked startled. "Actually, I was going to say a Dalek with severe emotional repression. Are you sure this is a complete representation of Nyder's personality? There's not much here."

Security Liaison rocked one hand back and forth in the air. "Commander Nyder, shall we say, runs on very narrow gauge rails."

"But the trains always run on time," suggested Sarah.

Security Liaison looked at her. "Yes. The trains always run on time."

Commander Nyder was following this conversation with his usual expression, which is to say none at all. Sarah Jane wondered if he really was as empty inside as that transparent sheet of film implied.

"And where is your personality wheel, Liaison?" asked the Doctor. She extracted another transparency from the pile and handed it to the Doctor, who held them back-to-back to the light. "Now that's very interesting. That's the sort of perfect alignment I'd only expect from a synthetic personality. You could have been made for each other."

There was a choked noise from the laboratory behind them, as though someone had smothered a laugh. With identical cold glares, Commander Nyder and Security Liaison turned in unison to look at the scientists.

They were all hunched earnestly over their work, making notes on their papers. Not one of them looked up, or coughed. But out of the corner of her eye, Sarah Jane could just see that one of the guards looked a bit pinkish in the face.

 

* * *

Second Laboratory Assistant entered Davros' office. He snapped, "I require you to activate this device. At once!"

"Yes, sir." She slid into the chair beside Davros, and started to thread the silver wires into her own hair, where each end clung magnetically to the implants in her scalp.

"I wish to review all Red Hexagon data on the neural transmission arrays," said Davros. "Specifically, what would be required to have them implanted in the Elite staff."

"That may not be feasible. These," she touched her own head, "were implanted very early, so that my brain would form around them. The flowmetal can extend and shift in conjunction with living tissue, but to implant into a fully formed mind … There would be damage at the point where they were joined to the cerebral tissue, possibly extensive damage. I suspect that only one implant site per mature brain would be possible."

"I will schedule tests. If I can completely control the minds of the Elite, know exactly what they are thinking at all times, they will be infinitely more valuable to me. I will also want to investigate the possibilities for this technology to be incorporated into the Dalek program."

"As you command." Second Laboratory Assistant placed the metal circlet atop her head, and then slid it down over her eyes. She slumped backwards in her chair, limbs loose, as Davros' hand began its purposeful manipulation of the access device.

 

* * *

After a decent night's sleep and a disappointingly skimpy breakfast, Harry was spending his morning in one of the smaller rooms of the Women's Quarters. He was actually a bit glad that they hadn't decided to put him to work here as a doctor, he was a little out of his field of expertise.

He was busy answering the weirdest range of questions from the Kaled women, who all appeared to have the proverbial Elephant's Child insatiable curiosity about him and "island society." They were long-standing stories that deserters and Mutos (like Sevrin apparently, poor chap), had fled the Skaran mainland and lived on islands. In fact, Harry thought that if he had been able to conjure up a boat that would take them to England, half of them would have piled in.

He'd just finished a long recitation of everything he could remember about Romeo and Juliet, and as the women fell to discussing with each other what it all meant, he took a sip of water from the glass they had brought him.

"I don't understand why Juliet was allowed to choose at all, let alone an enemy," said one of the women.

Another woman raised her hand. "Tell us about schools, about women being allowed to go to school!"

"No, peace! He says they are not at war where he comes from. Tell us about how you stopped fighting!"

Koll raised her hand from the back and asked, sweetly, "Would you like to kiss me again?"

Harry sputtered; half the women were looking at Koll, and the other half were looking at him. With expressions ranging from anger to fear to, well, interest. Curiosity.

"Really, it wasn't anything like that," Harry exclaimed. "Now I have put my foot in it," he muttered to himself.

The door opened and a familiar woman in familiar attire entered. Harry rose and said, "Tenth Healer, hello! What a relief it is to see you again."

She came forward and clasped Harry's hands. "There you are, Doctor Sullivan. I'm pleased to see you too, but I'm actually Eleventh Healer."

"Oh. Then Tenth?" and Harry's voice trailed away

"She did not survive her injuries. Neither did the man who abducted you; we tried, but on top of the usual battlefield damage, he could not be revived. I am sorry," she said, and squeezed Harry's hands between hers. Two men entered behind her, and she turned.

"Doctor Sullivan, this is Doctor Serh, and Private Zo."

The Kaled women in the room scrambled to their feet and backed away from Zo, his head still bandaged. He looked harmless enough, thought Harry, why are they so frightened of him? He saw Koll raise her gun and said, "Koll no, stop!"

"He's a soldier!" she snarled.

Doctor Serh, a distinguished-looking older gentleman, said, "Please Koll, put that down. Please?"

She took her finger off the trigger, but the gun was still aimed at Zo's chest.

"Fellow Kaleds," said Tenth, no Eleventh Healer, "this man has been marked for culling, and if you do not give him refuge he will certainly be killed. We need a place to hide him, will you offer it?"

Dynna, who so far as Harry could tell was the leader of all the Kaled women here, came in and looked at Zo in shock. Serh turned to her.

"Dynna, please. This man is harmless; he only needs a place where the cullers will not look for a few days. A very few days."

One of the women in the back spoke, "All soldiers are mad! He will maul the first woman he can get his hands on!"

Serh's shoulders slumped. "And I have told you that is not true. It is a myth, which has been repeated to you so that you would be too frightened to leave the  Womens' Quarters. It was a lie, and I am sorry to have been a part of it, but now I am telling you the truth. Here is the truth."

Serh took Zo by the arm, lightly, and led him forward a few steps. "Private Zo, let me introduce you to the leader here, Dynna."

Zo was smiling like a delighted child. He reached out a bandaged hand, tentatively, and after a long pause Dynna took it. Her face was stiff and hostile, and around her the other women were waiting, tense, looking ready to haul the blind man away and tear him to bits if he did anything untoward.

"H-hello," said Private Zo, sounding as awkward as a boy at his first dance. "I'm very hon-,  honoured to meet you." He smiled even wider. "I know that I've been marked for the cull, but please, there's vision prosthetics, radar boxes, there are still things I can do. I could, could work in one of the factories, my hands aren't so bad. Please let me stay. I won't hurt anyone, I promise!"

The other women murmured to each other, and Zo turned his head towards the sound. "I can't believe I'm really in a room full of women. All women!" He sounded - he sounded blessed, thought Harry.

Dynna was staring at Zo, still holding his hand. "You would have to obey our orders," she said, as though certain that he would refuse.

"Yes yes, of course!" he agreed, still turned towards the sounds of the other women.

"No fighting!" she warned.

He turned his bandaged face back to her. "I don't want to fight! I don't want to fight, I never did."

Koll came forward, her gun still in her hand; come to think of it, Harry had never seen her without a gun. Did she sleep with it? She asked the blind man harshly, "And if you happened to find a woman, alone and defenceless , what would you do to her?"

"Um, um," Zo stumbled over his own words, "introduce myself?"

"Not attack her?" she asked suspiciously.

"Never!" he said. He let go of Dynna's hand and reached out both of his own hands to the sound of Koll's voice. "I could never fight you, I could never hurt any of you! Please, just let me stay." He put his hands down. "You don't have to talk to me or anything. Just lock me away in a room, if you're afraid.

With an abrupt gesture, Koll handed her gun to the woman next to her, and marched up to Zo. She came closer, closer, and shoved his uncertain hands aside. And pressed her lips to his in a kiss. Her eyes were wide open, and full of hate: she clearly expected him to do something dreadful, so that she would be justified in lashing back at him.

Zo's hands fluttered in the air helplessly, and then went limp. He went limp and collapsed backwards onto Serh and Harry, who caught him and lowered him to the floor.

"What did I do?" asked Koll, astounded.

Serh touched the fallen man's throat, felt his pulse. "I think he's just fainted."

"Fainted?" said Koll, with a hint of a cruel laugh in her voice.

"Yes, fainted," the Kaled doctor snapped. "Have pity, he's only a boy. He's probably never kissed a woman in his life."

"What, never?" Harry's eyebrows drew down in puzzlement.

"Never. So, are you satisfied?" Serh stared up at Koll and the other women. "So much for all soldiers being monstrous beasts, you can knock them out with a kiss!"

Dynna came forward and stared down at the fallen man. Then she seemed to come to a decision. "Eleventh Healer, we will hide him. For a few days, and he will be kept separate from us."

"Thank you, Dynna," said Eleventh Healer, formally taking both her hands. "Everything I know of him says that he will be a very courteous guest. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Doctor Sullivan for a bit with Doctor Serh."

Dynna nodded in agreement, and rounded up the women present; four of them carried off the limp Zo, one to each limb.

Harry turned to Eleventh Healer and asked the question that had been uppermost in his mind ever since he had seen the wounded soldier. "I thought that Zo was not to be culled?"

Eleventh Healer looked grim. "We will not, but unfortunately some of the military commanders took it into their heads to visit the medical area. It was almost two hours before Doctor Serh could convince them to stop for a snack."

"Snack. Ah, perro fruit?"

"Yes, but they still remembered some of what they saw. Worse yet, they remembered forgetting. They are paranoid, on the alert for anything or anyone suspicious - I spent those two hours under a stretcher. Our time is getting very short here, very short."

"Why?" asked Harry. "What's going to happen?"

"Our people have been at war with the Thals for a thousand years, Doctor Sullivan," said Serh. "War has been the  centre of our existence for generation after generation. Everything has been devoted to winning this war, and we have destroyed ourselves to do it." He shook his head angrily. "This war must end, before we are extinct. Before we end all life on this planet. It does not matter if the war is won, it only matters that it ends. But everything is against that, of course: the military, the government, the Scientific Elite-"

"Not all of the Elite," Eleventh Healer broke in.

"No, thank all the Gods, some of the Elite still have some sanity about them. And with their help, it can all be over. The women are already on our side, and the Medicals as well. This is the tipping point. The next few days will either see this war ended forever - or it will go on, until the end of Skaro as an inhabitable planet, I fear."

"We can do it, Sullivan, Serh," said Eleventh Healer passionately. "We can give the Kaled people a real future, a chance to become a real people again. If we can break this war once and for all, we all live. That is the true victory.

"If we fail, the military will round us up, call us traitors and conspirators. You will be shot, Doctor Serh - or more likely hanged, to save on ammunition. I will be hamstrung and  lobotomised . Then artificially inseminated, so that I can bear children for the war effort. Nine out of ten would be boys, to fight and die, the tenth a girl to be raised in the Women's Quarters, without education or employment, and to bear in her turn."

Eleventh Healer rubbed at her head. "And as it happens, I'm using most of my brain, and really would rather not have it cut out."

"Nine out of ten?" asked Harry. "That's a strange side effect of artificial insemination."

"No, it's a biological reaction to environmental stress for Kaled females," Serh explained.

"If you aren't from the Women's Quarters, er, then where did you all come from?" asked Harry.

Doctor Sehr's eyes lit up. "Davros, our greatest scientist, created these women in secret. He chose their genes, grew them in artificial wombs, and kept them in the Elite Bunker, away from the military. Every one of them was trained and educated to the highest level. They are the ultimate tools that he will use to end this conflict forever. We call them the Daughters of Davros."

"Davros must be a very, er, charismatic fellow," said Harry, a little daunted at the thought of all of these women having the same father.

"It is a spiritual title, not a genetic one," said Eleventh Healer, who had been listening with a smile. "We do  honour to our creator by  honouring his name." She gave a little bow.

Harry turned to Eleventh Healer. "Look, I  realise that it's dangerous for you to move me around in the Dome, but couldn't you get a message to the Doctor and Sarah Jane in the Bunker?"

Eleventh Healer nodded. "Yes. What is the message?"

"Well," Harry pondered, "tell them that I'm all right. And ask when we will be able to meet."

She smiled. "You are concerned about them. Don't worry; they will be perfectly safe in the Bunker with the Elite. The message will be delivered."

Harry coughed, and when Eleventh Healer raised an eyebrow, he said, "Ah, and no need to mention about being in the Women's Quarters, right? I mean, it might not look proper and all, and…"

"You are safe here, at least. It is only for a little bit longer. We don't want anything to alarm the Kaled people, and most of them would find aliens extremely alarming. Nothing must stop us, not now. Not when everything is about to happen."


	6. Behind the Curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Sarah Jane start to unravel a mystery, while Harry gets deeper into trouble.

Commander Nyder and Security Liaison were poring intently over the personality readouts. Neither of them was paying any attention to their prisoners, and the Doctor looked around, casually. This certainly wasn't the time or place to make a break for it: even if the Commander was distracted, there were guards at both ends of the laboratory. His eyes flickered to Ronson's desk, wondering if he dared ask to have his possessions back.

Gharman caught the Doctor's eye and gestured him to approach: he did with Sarah Jane behind him.

"Doctor, these papers are truly extraordinary. Did you have any input into them?" asked Gharman.

"No, can't say that I did, actually."

Gharman shook his head in astonishment. "There are things here that I never dreamed possible, and other things that I say 'Yes, of course, why did I not see that before?' The Red Hexagon never ceases to amaze me. Amaze us all, really." He lowered his voice and said, "Last night I talked with Ronson. I share his concerns about the Daleks. I am relieved to see that he did not make good on his attempt to have you escape to the Dome-"

"Actually he did," Sarah whispered back. "Security Liaison brought us back before we got there."

Gharman stared at her. "Impossible. She tells Nyder everything that happens in the Bunker. Ronson would be under arrest already."

"Then I think that Security Liaison might share your concerns," said the Doctor.

At Nyder's desk, Security Liaison looked up casually and said, "Sir, should we really have prisoners wandering around and distracting the Elite?"

Nyder looked up as well, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of the Doctor and Gharman in conversation.

"Security Liaison. You will remain here and summarise last night's reports." Nyder gathered up the prisoners and left the main laboratory, and Security Liaison sat in Nyder's chair and started reading through his paperwork. She looked up, as though to make sure that Nyder was gone, and then started turning over the pages, fast, faster, writing with her undamaged hand, her pen blurring across the pages.

As they walked down the Bunker corridor, the Doctor took this opportunity to talk to his captor. "Do you really think it's a coincidence, Commander, that the Red Hexagon show up and offer Davros and the Elite information that sends them into a tizzy, just as the Dalek project is about to be completed?"

"Tizzy?"

"And they offer you the personality wheel: a way to winnow out the disloyal, the panicky, the incompetent. Is there anything they could offer you that would be more likely to distract you?"

"No," Nyder seemed to search his memory, "I think not." He stopped, and looked at his prisoner  sceptically . "And you are offering?"

"I'm offering you the theory that there is more going on with the Red Hexagon than you imagine. That these distractions are part of a deliberate pattern."

"Oh really? Five women, constantly under guard, are a threat to the Elite? My - contacts - within the Dome have confirmed that Red Hexagon was a top-secret government project." Nyder took a few steps down the corridor. "And I suppose you think they are plotting against Davros - in here?"

Nyder opened a door, and showed them a narrow room with two bunks on each side of it. When all three of them entered, it got decidedly crowded.

"They all sleep in here?" asked Sarah incredulously. "It's no bigger than a closet!"

"It is a closet - was." Nyder pointed over Sarah's shoulder to the back of the room, where there was another door. "Through there is Laboratory Nineteen; there was a hot mutagens accident some years ago, and the entire laboratory was sealed and pumped full of concrete. We cut through the corridor wall to get into this closet, after testing that the room was clean."

"Was anyone inside that laboratory when the accident occurred?"

"Yes." Nyder tilted his chin up an imperious fraction. "That laboratory is their tomb as well."

"Four bunks," noted the Doctor. "Four Assistants?"

Nyder blinked. "Plus the Security Liaison, who is personally assigned to me." Nyder looked around. "I presume she sleeps on the floor."

That hadn't been what Sarah was presuming, but under the circumstances she thought it best not to make a crack about it.

The Doctor had squeezed to the back of the room, and experimentally knocked on the door; it rang hollowly.

"Hmm, doesn't sound very solid. You would think, Commander, that if the room beyond was full of concrete this wouldn't wobble so when I knocked on it." He demonstrated, and all three of them watched in fascination as the door shivered under his blows.

Nyder stepped forward, and touched the small box mounted beside the door. Nothing happened. "Everything through that door is powered down, sealed off and completely dead, Doctor - in every sense of the word. Now -"

"The Red Hexagon, that's what - Gharman said these women were called." Sarah Jane caught herself; if she'd said Ronson had told her, it would lead to more questions.

"Correct."

"Well, I couldn't help but notice the little red hexagonal button here, on the side of the lock. I supposed that if I pushed it, nothing would happen?" said Sarah, suiting action to words. At her touch the door to the 'sealed' section next door opened, but there was nothing but blackness on the other side.

Sarah smiled at Nyder. "Ta-dah!" She took in his lack of reaction and said, "No?"

Nyder stepped back from the opening, and when Sarah Jane moved in front of him to look, he deliberately pushed her forward, into the darkness.

"Hey!" she said indignantly.

The Doctor glared down at Nyder. "That was uncalled for, Commander. Haven't you ever heard the expression, an officer and a gentleman?"

"No," he said flatly. Then they both turned, as light came streaming out of the laboratory door. Sarah was standing there, silhouetted by it.

"Found the light switch," she said unnecessarily. Then she turned around and said, "Wow!"

Wow was indeed the appropriate word. Far from being full of concrete, or even sterile laboratory equipment, the room was packed to the brim with mechanical gadgets, books, cans of food, piles of clothing, and boxes upon boxes of other mysterious items. The Doctor, Sarah Jane and the stunned Nyder couldn't begin to take it all in. The walls were covered with diagrams that looked like gene maps, and personality wheels: Sarah noticed several Dalek blueprints in there as well. Narrow paths wound through the piles of boxes that covered the entire floor and reached almost to the ceiling.

"It's like Aladdin's Cave," said Sarah, working her way gingerly through the piles of material; some of them tended to sway when touched.

"How did they get this? And how did they get all this in here?" said Nyder, bitterly astounded. "Where did the concrete go?" he added.

But not all of the concrete was gone. Nyder walked across the laboratory , moving around several pieces of equipment, and stopped at a pair of low concrete slabs that were sitting beside one wall, at an angle. There was a candle burning atop each one of the slabs, in front of a picture.

Nyder picked up one of the pictures, and read, apparently from the bottom of the frame, "Scientist Osr, died here so that his people might live.  Honour him." With a touch more respect, he put the picture down exactly where it had been. Then he tested the lock on one of a series of black filing cabinets that lined the wall to one side. 

"To gather this material, build this equipment, it must have taken hundreds of man-hours of  labour . Women-hours," Nyder corrected himself. "How did five of them do it?"

"I think there's more than five of them. Come and see," said Sarah Jane from where she had gone exploring, and the Doctor made his way to her side, and saw a long table with a white glass top. There were twenty chairs drawn up around it, and piles of paper. Printouts, more blueprints, hand-written notes, and personality wheels. The Doctor started looking through the papers, and Sarah Jane took her chance to lean close and whisper, "Do you think there's a way out of the Bunker from this room?"

The Doctor looked over his shoulder, but Nyder was hidden behind the supplies. He replied softly, "I think we wouldn't get far, even if we could find a way out. The Red Hexagon has helped us, and I believe they will help us again. We should trust them as they trust us."

Nyder actually could hear every word that they were saying, although not through normal means. There was a small flat panel on the wall that he had removed to reveal a listening device. He touched a control on it, and heard the Doctor say, "trust them as they trust us," then carefully touched another control and closed the panel back up. Good, the device was working. Now he would have an ear in the enemy camp.

He made his way to where the prisoners were, counted to himself, and snapped, "Twenty?"

"Perhaps they're just very fond of musical chairs?" suggested Sarah.

The Doctor picked up a small bottle from the shelf beside him and poured a stream of metal bearings across the table, trapping some of them under his palm. "Commander Nyder, if I had twenty identical ball bearings, and only showed you five of them at a time," he lifted his hand to show five bearing, then covered them again, "wouldn't you assume that there were only five of them?"

"So - there are more than five of them here. The fact that they are all identical, that is their disguise."

"If they aren't genetically identical, then yes. They've been surgically modified I suspect."

"Your suspicions are not proof." Nyder turned on his heel and went back to the filing cabinets. "Davros will require proof."

The Doctor and Sarah Jane exchanged a glance. Wasn't this room proof enough?

Nyder had fished a lock pick out of his sleeve, and finally managed to get one of the filing cabinets open. He started leafing through them, and muttered, "They're alphabetical. D-Y, D-E, D-A - Davros." He pulled out a thick well-worn folder, and started leafing through it; he stopped at one of the papers inside and swallowed, audibly, before snapping the folder shut and tucking it under his arm.

"Bad news?" asked the Doctor.

Nyder strode to the door, saying out loud, "I am going have this room emptied and sealed." He stopped talking when he opened the door, because Security Liaison was standing on the other side of it, looking at him with deadly calm eyes.

"What is that?" snapped Nyder, pointing at her hands.

Security Liaison held up her hands, sheathed in black leather gloves similar to the ones that Nyder wore. "I have three torn tendon sheaths and a thumb that's been dislocated, Commander; I need to keep my hand under pressure or it will be further damaged. And the bandage catches on things. And I do not need the Scientific Elite simpering at me and asking if it hurts, because it does."

"And what is this?" asked Nyder, sweeping his own hand out to encompass the hidden room full of equipment.

She looked at the three of them. "Our auxiliary storage facility."

Nyder stepped forward menacingly. "You have been pilfering from the - what do you mean, auxiliary?"

"Pilfering? Never, the supply room is at one hundred and two percent. And this is just where we do some of the things that require extra elbow room." She stepped neatly around her Commander and closed the door between them, leaving him outside in the closet - and her inside the laboratory, with the two prisoners. She looked at them and winked.

"He's going to be furious with you," said Sarah, astounded.

"That lock won't yield with people inside this room," Security Liaison replied. "A safety precaution. He can be furious later. I have a message for you."

"Doctor Harry Sullivan says," and somehow in her stance, her tone, Security Liaison did a great imitation of Harry, "I'm all right. And ask when we will be able to meet." She went back to her normal manner, "And we is you two of course, Doctor, Smith."

"You said that Harry is in the Dome, where you don't go. So - how can you imitate him so perfectly?" asked the Doctor.

"It's in my nature."

"You do a great Nyder," said Sarah Jane.

Security Liaison touched her fingers to her lips in a 'hush' gesture, and opened the door behind her. She turned and confronted - nobody. The bunkroom was empty. She blinked, grave as ever. Then she pulled loose a thin cable that hung along one of the wall panel seams, nearly invisible. She touched it to the side of her head, and Sarah suddenly remembered Third Outer Speaker touching a wire to her head, in the dark tunnel. Security Liaison's eyelids fluttered; then she pulled the wire loose and carefully draped it back where it had been.

"Gharman has expressed an interest in meeting with you, and in lieu of further orders, I think I shall take you to Sub-Laboratory Twelve, and tell Gharman that you are there. Then report to Commander Nyder. He's going to be upset with me."

"He opened one of your filing cabinets, you know. Took a very large folder labelled Davros," said the Doctor.

Security Liaison's eyes widened. "Then he's going to be very upset with me. For a little while." She looked almost smug for an instant, but the expression vanished before Sarah could be certain.

"Look." The Doctor stepped close to Security Liaison, and she craned her head back to look up into his face. "I don't know what game you are playing here, but you are playing not only with our lives, but those of countless future generations. Tell me now, honestly, Liaison: are you for or against the Daleks?"

"The Daleks are creatures of superb potential. It is in the best interests of all that this potential be correctly focused. And now we shall go to Sub-Laboratory Twelve." She turned and went into the corridor, and then paused. "If you do not come with me, the guards will obey my orders. And they can be passionate about carrying out orders."

 

* * *

Harry actually had found a way to put his medical training to use, here in the Women's Quarters. He was talking to the injured men who were being hidden here, talking about therapy, about how they felt, what he could do to ease them. Most of them were pathetically grateful for someone to talk to.

Right now he was in the entrance hall, with one of the Daughters, Thirteenth Surgeon, and walking round and round in a circle with a young man named Litton. Litton was sweating out a drug overdose, and every time he sat or lay down his stomach rebelled; so Harry and Thirteen Surgeon walked round and round with him, encouraged him to talk, and didn't let him sleep.

Litton was shaking as he said, "I knew it was too much, but I hadn't had any in so long. And there was nowhere to hide it, there's more and more random sweeps of the living quarters. I wasn't supposed to survive that first time, they gave me too much-" and then the door burst open behind them.

Burst literally; an explosion blew out the lock and the door jerked aside. The two older men who entered were wearing long robes and hard expressions; without a change in that expression, the one with the moustache shot Litton in the stomach, doubling him over.

"No!" cried Thirteenth Surgeon, falling with him, pressing her hands to the wound; she looked up in time to take the next bullet in the chest, and she slumped over her patient.

A bullet cracked over their heads from inside the Women's Quarters; Harry saw Koll out of the corner of his eye, as the moustached  man stepped forward and pressed his weapon to Harry's temple. Harry could smell his hair crisping in the heat of the barrel.

"Stop shooting!" he yelled, and there were cries of dismay from inside the Quarters.

"You shot her," said the other man, staring down at Thirteenth Surgeon. "You shot a woman!"

"She wasn't a Kaled women, she was one of those. And this is - what are you!" he demanded of Harry.

"I'm an island Doctor," he replied. His next words were blotted out by a familiar cry. Eyyiyiyiyiyiyi …

"Run!" shouted the moustached man, dragging Harry with him by the arm. They ran, out of the Quarters, out into the Dome.

They ran down endless corridors, past groups of arguing soldiers, and civilians who plastered themselves to the wall at the trio's approach. Off in the distance were the sounds of fighting, shouting, and the wailing eyiyiyiyi cry. They finally reached a sort of ceremonial chamber, with an elaborate entryway. But they had to step over the dead body of another Daughter in order to enter.

Inside was chaos: more men in long robes standing around a meeting table, shouting, threatening. There were only two guards in the room, and they both looked deeply confused, almost as confused as Harry felt.

"It's our only hope!" one man shouted.

"It's treachery! The Thals will roll right over us!"

"Nobody could have planned this!"

"Davros planned this," snapped the man holding Harry. He shook his prisoner by the arm, hard enough that Harry felt his shoulder joint creak. "Here is one of his traitors, working to subvert the Kaled genetic identity from within. We found him," he paused dramatically, "in the Women's Quarters."

There were gasps of horror from the other men. One asked, "Mogran, are you sure?"

"Yes!" Mogran released Harry and strode to the table, laying his firearm down and glaring at the other men. "Councilmen, it is clear that Davros is moving to take over the entire Dome. If we are going to stop him, we must act now."

"Davros and the Elite are our only chance of winning this war!" shouted one of the other Councilmen despairingly.

"Perhaps he believes these extreme measures are necessary for the Kaled victory?" quavered the oldest-looking Councilman.

Mogran snapped, "If Davros destroys the Kaled government, then he destroys the Kaled people. To subvert the military at this time, to sow chaos when victory is within our grasp, is not some grand strategy. It is suicidal insanity!"

"I will be no part of this," said the old Councilman, drawing himself up with dignity; with equal dignity, Mogran raised his firearm and shot him, point-blank. The man fell, and the other Councilmen and Harry looked on in horror.

"You are correct, Verro. You will be no part of it." Mogran gestured to the guards, who pointed their weapons at the other Councilmen. As they cringed, Mogran raved at them.

"You weak-willed fools, bowing down to Davros like he was some God! Giving him more and more power, letting him commit excess after excess! Now he wants it all! He will destroy us in his madness and the Thals will come and finish the job, butcher our people in their beds! If we are to save our people, we have to stop this plot, and its creator, once and for all. There are still members of the military loyal to this Council," he looked at the cringing men he faced, "loyal to me! And we will sweep through this Dome and destroy these false women, and these traitors, all of them!"

Mogran drew a deep breath.

"Davros must be destroyed!"


	7. The War at Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A garbled voice came over the intercom. "The Bunker is under attack! The B-" and then there was only the crackle of static.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Davros discovers a truth about Security Liaison; the Kaled Council strikes at the Bunker.

Davros was enraptured, captivated by his own vision: the Elite implanted with the neural arrays. Himself at the  centre of a web of cables, able to control and access every idea in their minds. He was certain this could be implemented in the Daleks as well. And after that, why not the entirety of the Kaled populace? His mind was so busy polishing the future of his dreams that it took Commander Nyder several tries to get his attention.

When Davros finally came enough to himself to  realise that Nyder was in his office, he snarled, "I left orders that I was not to be disturbed!"

"Davros, I had to countermand them, you must see-"

"I must review this data and integrate it into my research! All of it! Now!"

"You don't have all the data." Nyder suggestively flourished the heavy folder he held, with Davros' own name prominent on its label. "They have hidden material from you."

"How do you know that I do not have this material already?" said Davros, his hand twitching towards the folder.

"Because if you did, you would have ordered the execution of every Red Hexagon member in this laboratory."

Davros tilted his head a fraction, his ruin of a face towards Nyder. "Really. Then you will deliver your summary, and then I will review the data in detail. And then, perhaps, we will review one of the Red Hexagon personnel. In detail."

Nyder drew a deep breath, and began.

 

* * *

Sub-Laboratory Twelve was a smaller room, with only two chairs and a single table covered with glittering glassware. Gharman was sitting, but rose to his feet when the Doctor and Sarah Jane entered.

"I don't believe it," he said.

"Believe what?" asked the Doctor.

"That Security Liaison would arrange for us to be alone in here."

"Are you sure we are alone?" The Doctor gestured around the room, then touched his finger to his ear and whispered, "Listening devices?"

Gharman shook his head. "This room is clean, I checked."

Reassured, the Doctor offered Sarah a chair. She sat down, resting not just her feet but her head, which felt overstuffed. It had been a busy morning.

"Nyder's going to be furious with Security Liaison when he finds out," said Gharman.

Sarah Jane gave a little snort of disbelief. "Funny, that's just what she said to us."

"Nyder may find himself a bit distracted by ongoing events. You see," said the Doctor, "he's just discovered that your Laboratory Assistants have completely emptied the sealed lab space next to their quarters, and filled it with their own supplies and equipment. And also, that there are a lot more than five of them."

"Are you certain of this, Doctor?" asked Gharman.

"Saw the laboratory space with my own eyes. But I wonder, I wonder. Was there something there that I missed?"

The Doctor started to pace back and forth, touching the glassware here and there with one finger as though to mark off his points. "There were food supplies, blueprints including Dalek blueprints. There were file cabinets, of paper records. And that's what really puzzles me."

"Why?" asked Sarah.

The Doctor looked at them through the side of a test tube he had plucked from its rack; the glass cylinder distorted his features. "Because if the Red Hexagon really have neural transmission technology, they would be able to pass memories mind to mind. Perfectly. So, why do they need paper records?"

"Posterity?" suggested Sarah. "Maybe they expect the system to break down."

The Doctor put down the test tube, and pulled loose a thin wire that was hanging loose against the well. "Is this wire capable of transmitting as a superconductor?"

Gharman frowned. "Yes, it was put in when the Bunker was first built. It was for a holographic transmission system that was soon abandoned. The wires are all over the Bunker. Why?"

"Because I saw Security Liaison use one to receive orders via her neural array. And I think Third Outer Speaker did the same. Are these wires all through the Dome and the tunnels as well?"

"Yes. They are." Gharman sat in the chair the Doctor wasn't using. "So they've been talking to one another in secret, in and out of the Bunker, for as long as they've been here. But that makes no sense. If the Dome officials, if Councilmen like Mogran and Than knew what was really going on with the Dalek program, it would be halted at once. So why haven't the Assistants told them what they have seen here?"

Sarah Jane quoted in a flat voice, "' The Daleks are creatures of superb potential. It is in the best interests of all that this potential be correctly focused.'" She went on in her normal voice. "That's what she said, Security Liaison."

The Doctor said, "I think that by the best interests of all, though, she meant the best interests of Red Hexagon. Whoever or whatever they really are. Gharman, what can you tell us about Hif, the scientist who disappeared? What was his area of specialization?"

"Cloning." Gharman loosened his collar. "He wanted to create cloned Kaled females to propagate the race, but Davros was adamant; females would inevitably be exposed to the environmental poisons, and their children would be mutated as well. He was - harsh, with Hif. When he disappeared, we all thought that he might have been dismissed."

"And?" asked Sarah Jane.

"People who are dismissed from Davros' service, well, they are generally believed to have a very short retirement." Gharman mimed a gun to the head with his thumb and forefinger, and both of the visitors understood at once. "Certainly they are never heard from again."

The Doctor spoke firmly. "Gharman, I realise that you are endangering your own life by being here. I believe though, that you are as revolted by what the Daleks are now, as I am by what they will become in the future. There must be some weakness, some flaw in their genetic makeup or their casings that can be exploited. Help us to help you, Gharman. Please."

 

* * *

Harry had to admit, he was in a bit of a tight spot here. And he couldn't see any obvious way out of it. The ranting Mogran was between him and the doorway, and he had an unpleasant feeling that at some point Mogran would shoot him to punctuate one of his more colourful statements.

One of the guards was right at his back, and he whispered to Harry, "Are you really a traitor?"

"No of course not, I'm a doctor!" Harry whispered back.

"I'm not a traitor either, believe me, but I can't be a part of this. I'm getting out of here. Step back. Slowly."

The guard took Harry by the elbow. Step by step, trying not to attract the attention of the Councilmen, they moved backwards - and then suddenly a door closed between them and the Council chamber!

Harry looked around; he was in a narrow, dimly lit corridor that seemed to slant downwards in the distance.

"This is the Council's emergency escape route, it leads to the heart of the Dome," said the guard, thumbing some control at the side of the door. He was shaking, looking almost sick to his stomach. "This is wrong, it's all wrong. Killing women! And this talk about Davros, it's the worst treachery. Davros couldn't betray us to the Thals!"

"I've seen nothing making me think that he is working for the Thals," said Harry, truthfully enough. Then he shushed the guard, and listened. They could dimly hear the Councilmen still ranting through the door, but there was also a very faint sound off in the distance, at the far end of the corridor.

….eyiyiyiyiyi…

Harry put his hand to his throat, and tried to imitate the sound. All that he got was a gargly squeak at first.

"What are you doing, we should get out of here!" hissed the guard.

"No, that noise, it's the alarm signal, it will bring the Daughters."

There was the sudden sound of fists thudding on the door, and shouts.

Harry looked grim. "At least, it had better do that."

He cleared his throat, and then as high as he could pitch it, shouted down the corridor, "Eyeyeyeyiyiyiyiyiiiiii!" The thunder of fists grew louder, and the door jumped open a hand span.

And the answer came, came from dozens of throats as the darkened corridor was suddenly filled with charging figures, all wearing gas masks, all yelling, all heading straight for the Council door. The guard thoughtfully opened it wide, and the figures streamed past, into the Council chamber. So many squeezed through that both Harry and the guard ended up squashed against the walls.

Their guns spat, and the Councilmen and the other guard fell or fought with darts sticking out of arms or legs. Some who continued to fight were felled by puffs of gas from canisters that the Daughters carried. One of the Councilmen crawled under the table, only to be hauled out and have a dart stuck in his behind by hand.

One of the attackers turned and pulled off her mask. "Doctor Sullivan, I presume?"

Harry nodded, trying to catch his breath from the buffeting he had received.

The Daughter smiled. "Sorry about that, we came as quickly as we could. It looks like we were just in time." She turned around and started counting, then told the others, "Send word. We're missing Than, Gelc, and Mogran."

"Mogran? No, he was just here," said Harry. He looked around at the sprawled unconscious figures, but the  moustached  man was missing.

One of the Daughters waved her hand for attention and said, her voice muffled by her mask, "Councilman Verro's still alive!"

Harry went over to the wounded man at once. He fell to his knees and saw that the bullet had penetrated high on the chest. The Councilman had clapped his hand over the wound and kept the lung from collapsing. He must have lain there on the floor, thought Harry with a shiver, not making a noise, sure that if he cried out for help he would get only another bullet.

"Keep pressing down, that's it," Harry assured the wounded man, sliding his own hand under Verro's back and pulling it back wet. "We need to get pressure on the exit wound."

Another figure knelt beside Harry, and he looked up to see a Daughter in medical gear that was marred by a ragged bloodstain over its front. He looked at her again, and snapped, "Thirteenth Surgeon! You shouldn't be here, you're wounded!"

She wheezed as she answered, "We need everyone right now, Doctor Sullivan, everyone. We are too close, we can't lose anyone. I am not going to lose anyone, not if I can help it!" Her hands were pulling Verro up a bit, then clapping a gauze pad to his punctured back. "Litton is in surgery, and we need to get Verro there as well."

"Wait," said Verro weakly. "The bomb."

"Bomb where?" asked Thisu.

"Mogran, he had a bomb. A City-Breaker, and he's using it against the Bunker."

"It's all right, Verro, we got here and stopped Mogran."

"No, it's not all right! Mogran was not arguing for us to act," Verro coughed, "he was forcing us to approve his act retroactively. The bomb, Mogran sent his men carrying it to the Bunker already! They're going in through the tunnel between the Bunker and the City, they'll be there at any moment!"

She gasped, then screamed. The Daughters screamed as one.

 

* * *

Security Liaison stood in a lower level Bunker room that was full of equipment designed for unpleasant use. She wore her laboratory standard issue clothing as though they were a uniform. Davros was before her. Nyder was doing nothing so crass as actually breathing down her neck; he simply stood behind her, waiting.

"Security Liaison," said Davros. "You are familiar with the Bunker Interrogation Centre, and its uses?"

"I have assisted Commander Nyder here on several occasions, sir," she answered. "Is there some function you would like me to demonstrate?"

Davros wheeled a bit closer. "No, the functions here are going to be demonstrated on you. I am going to ask you a series of questions. Then, I am going to wire you to the truth detection equipment, and ask those questions again. And then, under the most painful physical stimulations that can be devised, I shall ask you a third time. You may be permitted to survive if, and only if, I am fully satisfied that your answers to my questions under all three conditions are complete, truthful and exact. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Davros."

"I have been reviewing the file which Commander Nyder acquired in your illegally concealed work space." Those papers were now strewn over the interrogation room's desk. "Why was none of this material available with the Red Hexagon data in the mainframe computer?"

"Those data files were password protected, to prevent any of the Elite from accidentally accessing them. It would have caused them, " she seemed to hunt for the right phase, then came up with, "a distracting level of distress."

"Distress, yes, I am very distressed. These papers detail gene therapy and artificial replication experiments, of which I had no knowledge. No knowledge whatsoever. There are specifications given for a matter disintegrator that would have been of incalculable value to the Dalek program. It was not used, because I was never informed! I was NEVER informed!"

"Sir," said Security Liaison, apologetically. "The matter disintegrator is based on your own experiments of approximately thirty two years ago, relating to atomic particle disruption. The replication experiments-"

"The cloning experiments." Davros' voice was harsher than ever. "One cloning experiment in particular. Not only did the Red Hexagon programme involve cloning and gene engineering of Kaled females, draining valuable materials away from the Bunker, but it also involved the cloning of an example of the highest level of Kaled male genes.

"Myself."

Nyder tensed, waiting to see if Davros would call on him to start the physical level of the interrogation. He might; he seemed more agitated that Nyder had ever seen him, his hand shuddering and shoulders twisting with tension.

"You will tell me now, Security Liaison, where that clone is!" snapped Davros.

She did not answer; instead she bent over at the waist, putting her face on a level with Davros'. Her eyes stared levelly into his empty sockets. She raised her right hand to her left cheek, fingers shaped as though she was holding something, and then dragged her thumb down her face. She paused, as though expecting some reaction from Davros, then raised her hand and drew her fingertips down the other cheek.

Davros' shuddering suddenly halted, he sat frozen in his chair. Then he whispered, "You … have … my EYES!"

And Security Liaison chuckled lowly, her hands suddenly locked into fists at her sides.

Nyder immediately registered that she was in striking distance not only of Davros, but the delicate controls of the life support system built into Davros' chair. "Get away from him!" he hissed, and cupped the grip of his truncheon.

Security Liaison did not move. She said flatly, "Please stop grabbing your truncheon like that around me, Commander, I find it personally embarassi-"

Enough! Nyder grabbed Security Liaison by the shoulder and yanked her backwards, before smashing her across the forehead. At least it was supposed to happen that way; instead she ducked and weaved and evaded his hand, leaping to one side and then facing him, in a fighting pose that looked ridiculous when a woman struck it.

She stamped her foot, and Nyder took in her posture, the angles of her knees and arms, and  realised that she might actually be challenging him. He kept his truncheon out, but reached for his pistol as Davros shouted, "Stop! STOP! I forbid you to harm her, Nyder!" 

Nyder froze, and slowly lowered his truncheon, as Davros continued, "Do not harm one hair on her head! Because-"

"Because my hair is your hair, my eyes are your eyes, and all the rest. A perfect tissue match, except for the minor matter of gender." Security Liaison went from fighting stance to simply standing at rest. She straightened her jacket, touched her fingers to her chest. "Most importantly, my heart is your heart - and you know full well, Davros, that a full mechanical replacement for that organ will require a complete retooling of your support system. Far easier for you to take mine."

"That would be fatal," Nyder noted.

"And your point is?" Security Liaison caught his eye.

"No point at all, I assure you," he said smoothly.

Davros wheeled closer, his vision system focused totally on the Red Hexagon woman. "Shouldn't you be taller?"

"I was underfed deliberately, so that I would not reach my full size and my organs and limbs could be fitted to your body as necessary, without - trimming. They bobbed my nose," Security Liaison rubbed at it, "and performed other plastic surgery so that I would not attract undue attention. I was to be simply another Red Hexagon member, until the day came when I was needed for you, Davros." She straightened proudly. "My limbs, my organs, my eyes, my flesh for you." Her voice rang with conviction.

The room suddenly shuddered, and the lights dimmed. A booming noise echoed through the Bunker corridors, and an alarm siren wailed and was abruptly cut off. There was the distant chatter of a machine gun, then several guns.

"What!" shouted Davros. Nyder drew his pistol; Security Liaison was instantly alert, all eyes and bared teeth, looking ready to fight.

A garbled voice came over the intercom. "The Bunker is under attack! The B-" and then there was only the crackle of static.

 

* * *

The conspirators' discussion of Kaled polycarbide cartilage had been interrupted as well. Now there was a sudden flurry of what sounded like hail against the door of Sub-Laboratory Twelve. Sarah jumped and screamed.

"Back, get back!" shouted Gharman. "That's machine gun fire!" There was the thundering of feet outside, then more gunfire from further off.

Gharman went to the door control, which was blinking red. "One of the bullets must have smashed the lock mechanism on the outside." He looked at the alarmed Sarah and reassured her, "The door is armoured, we're quite safe here. We'll have to slide the door open by hand, that's all."

In the main laboratory, the scientists converged from throughout the Bunker. It was the most heavily shielded room in the facility, and standard emergency drills had it be the rendezvous point, rather than risking evacuation into the outside world. After Kavell dashed in a side door, he turned and touched the blast shutter control, and a heavy ceramic plate slid down from the ceiling and covered the door. Nothing could get in now.

At the main door, Ronson urged the scientists in. "Hurry, hurry!" he cried, and looked over his shoulder. "Where's Gharman?"

Security Liaison came through the door, at a run, and shoved Ronson across the floor. She slid with him as though in an absurd dance, while saying, "Gharman is in Sub-Laboratory Twelve, we will hope he is uninjured."

"Why-" and Davros slid through the door after Security Liaison. Ronson checked himself; Security Liaison had just been clearing the doorway so that Davros could get in.

"Seal the laboratory," ordered Davros. Ronson paused for a moment, then went to the main controls and lowered the shields over all the doors. Anyone still outside would have to take their chances.

Davros' hand flipped a switch on his chair, with no results. He demanded, "Where are the Dalek test subjects?"

"We were upgrading their sub-infra vision systems, they're under  anaesthesia ," said one of the scientists. "Even if we could wake them in time, they would be blind." To himself, he thought that blind, armed Daleks blundering around in the Bunker was almost as frightening as outside attack. 

"What is happening out there?" said Davros. "Who is attacking us?"

Security Liaison slid over to the main console and flipped a switch; a screen rose out of it, and started displaying rapid-fire images of corridors and empty laboratories - all shot from video cameras inside the Bunker.

"That screen can't access the internal cameras!" said one of the guards.

"It can now - HA!" Security Liaison's reply was cut off by the sight on the screen of six men carrying a heavy steel cylinder in a sling of straps between them; a man before and behind with a heavy machine gun guarded them. She touched a control and the camera stayed on them. "Kaled uniforms, they look Kaled. Oh no." She pointed to the screen with one shaking hand. "Please, someone, please tell me that you blood-gutted morons did not leave a City-Buster lying around where someone could get their hands on it! NO!" she shrieked.

Everyone in the room flinched at that shriek, except for Davros. Security Liaison was standing on her toes, face bestial with rage.

"It is a City-Buster," moaned Ronson, shaking. "The super-bomb. It'll contaminate the entire Bunker just by being here, and if they set it off!"

"Those men are already dead from radiation, but still walking," she said, in a shaky voice. She touched the controls, and the cameras showed empty corridors, then Gharman and the Doctor in a sub-laboratory, then Nyder leading a squad of men with heavy weaponry.

"Nyder's too far away, he won't make it before they reach Section One and detonate." Security Liaison's voice was trembling small. "If those men are cornered, it will be the work of an instant to flash-trip the bomb and kill us all." They could all see that a tangle of loose wires led from the nosepiece of the bomb to a crude control on top.

"No, no, no! I do not accept this, I cannot be defeated! Not now!" shouted Davros. "You must protect me! Security Liaison! You must protect me!"

Everything seemed to slow down for a moment, a moment that stretched.

Security Liaison was smiling. And growling through her smile; her face alight, limbs suddenly poised like a rock leopard about to pounce on her helpless prey. The noise she made was worse than animal, it shivered right to the nerves.

"I obey," she whispered, and moved. She dashed to a bare wall, and touched one of the rivets there, which unlike all the other rivets in that wall had been shaped in the form of a hexagon. A slender panel fell open, and she reached inside and pulled out what might be a weapon.

It was a strangely contorted silver rifle, with asymmetric antennae bristling from it. A trail of neural connector cables hung from the underside of the stock and barrel. She pivoted with the gun held loosely under her arm, and half of the scientists of the room ducked. Not just at the weapon, but at the look of gleeful, murderous joy on her face.

"Controlled matter disintegration, gentlemen, Davros. A great building tool, a fine trick at parties." Her ghastly smile grew even wider. "A weapon that can slice through mountains, destroy ships and planes and tanks in the flickering of a beam."

Some of the scientists who had not moved before started getting down on the floor, on second thought. There was a burst of machine gun fire in the distance, as the attackers killed two guards.

Security Liaison turned to face the outer wall of the laboratory, and started threading the cables from the weapon to her scalp. "And it will let me slice through that wall, across into Section Three, through that corridor and anyone in it," her hand flickered to indicate the monitor and the approaching figures with their deadly burden, "through the next wall, and then dissipate. It has better; the wall after that is load-bearing."

"You can't!" cried Ronson, from where he was huddled beside his desk. "You'll cut through Sub-Laboratory Twelve, you'll kill Gharman and the Doctor!"

"And Sarah Jane Smith." Security Liaison adjusted one last cable to her head, and balanced the stock of the rifle across her shoulder. "You must never forget the Smith."

She stood, head erect and poised, then slid backwards until she was standing by the central panel. She reached into one of her pockets and pulled out a tiny head-mount microphone, which she plugged into the control panel. The other end was strung over her ear, to hang beside her mouth.

Ronson looked up from the floor. By some unhappy coincidence, he could see both Davros and Security Liaison in profile; and he suddenly saw the alikeness, the alignment of them. A family resemblance, almost.

The cameras zoomed in, taking in sweating faces, one attacker's bloody nose, and the way they staggered as they came on. "I have to drop them now, if one of them falls they'll be out of the beam," she whispered. Behind her, the cameras were showing Commander Nyder, with his men, approaching an intersection; as soon as they came around the corner, they would be seen by the attackers.

"I must protect Davros," she said, as though in triumph. Only Davros was close enough to hear her whisper, under her breath, "I ask for forgiveness back. Nyder."

Her hand touched the microphone, and she spoke over the Bunker's intercom system. In the severely plain tone of an automated message, she said, "Project Long Ears. Five G's in ten seconds."

In the corridor, the six men carrying the bomb were burning; their muscles swollen and hot with exhaustion and radiation. The one at the front looked up, but he was too tired, too bleary and sick to understand the message. He just knew he had to keep going, go forward into Section One. And die.

In Sub-Laboratory Twelve, the Doctor looked up and said, "What?" Then he shouted, "Get DOWN!" and slammed Sarah and Gharman across the chest with his arms. All three of them dropped to the floor, and the Doctor's arms held them there, unable to rise.

Nyder and his men were almost in position; he was gambling that if he could drop enough of the attackers, they would be unable to carry their burden any farther. They were pelting the corridor before and behind them with bullets, he had to get enough men shooting back to drop some of them. That would give him time to seal the corridor, pump in gas, then anti-radiation foam, seal it off with portable lead panels. His mind concentrated on the clean-up, rather than the inevitability of his death as soon as he rounded that corner. Ahead of him, he saw a Red Hexagon woman step out of a doorway - a doorway? There was no door there - and she ran at him, darting through the intersection and staggering as the bullets punched into her side. She lurched forward, red spreading across her clothes. She hurtled herself at Nyder, taking him at the waist. In midair, her hands and feet flew out, managing to trip and tangle, and the entire squad went down on the floor in a heap.

Security Liaison closed her eyes, adjusted her stance minutely, and there was a searing electronic screech and stink of vaporised metal as she drew the rifle in a precise arc in front of her, at shoulder height.

The lights went out.


	8. The Thin Edge of the Wedge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Hexagon begin to reveal the true extent of their knowledge - and power.

There was a terrible stillness in the dark of the main laboratory.

Security Liaison's voice spoke out of the darkness, trying to be flat and unemotional and failing. "Sliced the power main."

There was an overhead flickering, then dim blue emergency lighting came on. It made the scientists look like they were already dead. It did not flatter Davros' appearance either.

The Red Hexagon woman turned to the video screen, which was blank. She thumbed a control, with no response. Then she raised her head to listen. There was the sounds of many swift footsteps in the corridor outside. A sudden banging on the laboratory door was followed by a woman's shout, "Security Liaison?"

"Present, all safe here," coughed Security Liaison. "Fatalities?"

"Not yet tallied," was the reply.

Security Liaison made a soft, pained sound. "I meant, how many did I kill."

"Eight Kaleds, one Red Hexagon. Power to the main laboratory to be restored in forty minutes-"

"You will have power restored within twenty minutes or suffer the consequences!" said Davros, rolling to Security Liaison's side.

"Within twenty minutes, sir." More footsteps outside. "You have not been patterned in the use of the matter disintegrator, Security Liaison."

"Needs must," was her only reply. "Davros ordered that I protect him." Her voice sounded strangely thick.

Security Liaison moved to the door and cranked the manual override. Slowly the door inched open. There was brighter light flooding in from the corridor, silhouetting a group of women looking in at the Elite. Some of them were wearing gas masks. The one at the front reached out to Security Liaison, who dropped the matter disintegrator with a clatter and took hold of those hands. Then she screamed.

Head back, silhouetted against the light, she screamed, "Eight Kaleds. Eight! How could I lose eight!" And she wailed like a beaten child, or a lost soul, as the other women closed around her in a mass embrace. She clung to them, sobbing aloud.

From the darkness, the scientists looked on with confused and frightened faces. Davros watched, his thoughts hidden behind the wall of his face.

* * *

Nyder disgustedly shoved the woman's corpse off of him, and rose to his feet. The rest of the squad was getting up too, getting back into position, uncertain in the uneven lighting. But the attackers had stopped firing. There was a scuffling noise from around the corner, but no tromp of boots, no bullets.

Nyder waited, then quickly gestured one of his men. The soldier drew a pocket mirror from his uniform and angled it, using it to peer down the corridor without being seen. Nyder was looking over his shoulder when his gaze was caught by a thin line of light.

It ran straight along the wall, at upper chest height. He touched it with one gloved finger, and felt a tiny depression. It was as though an incredibly fine slice had been taken through the wall, and the light was shining through it.

"It's clear, sir," said the peering man. Then he gagged.

"What?" said Nyder, then looked in the mirror. Then he took a machine gun from one of his men and looked around the corner, cautiously.

There was a huddle of people, no they were women, in the corridor, bent over some task. Protruding between their legs were - arms and legs and fallen weapons. The limbs lay at odd random angles, as though they were not attached to any bodies. One of the women turned; she was wearing heavy protective gear, including leaded face mask and goggles. She said, "Commander, this corridor is hot! City-Buster, keep your men back!" The voice was Red Hexagon, but there were at least twelve or fifteen of them in the corridor.

The Security men promptly withdrew back around the corner of the corridor. Nyder took the mirror and used it to observe what they were doing, and said in a loud tone, "That can't be a City-Buster, they were manufactured at the beginning of the war! The radioactive materials would have decayed by now!"

"We think that Councilman Mogran had it in a stasis field, sir," said a Red Hexagon woman from behind Nyder. He whirled, and she walked quickly past, towing a strangely silent powered dolly behind her. She moved around the corner, and Nyder watched in the mirror again as the women got the bomb attached to the dolly somehow, and pulled it away. It was strange, but it almost looked like they had stuck the dolly to the side of the bomb, not under it.

"Mogran?" Nyder asked of no one in particular. Events (and people) were coming past him too fast, he wanted to make them slow down, damn it all!

"Commander," and one of his men pointed to the radiation meter in the wall behind them. The needle was sinking down through the yellow and into the white, as the radiation source moved away - the bomb. Nyder handed back the mirror, and looked around the corner again. All that was left was a single Red Hexagon member, wringing a mop out with heavily gloved hands into a lead bucket. "Excuse me," she said, and scooted off with bucket and mop.

The corridor was empty. No bomb, no bodies. No blood. Only a wet mark on the floor to show where they had been.

"Fall in, we have to get to the main laboratory!" snapped Nyder. "But - keep as low as you can. Check every corner."

Crouching, they moved out. Behind them, unnoticed, the dead body of the Red Hexagon woman was swiftly pulled out of sight.

 

* * *

In Sub-Laboratory Twelve, Gharman was pulling himself to his feet - but then he froze. "Is it safe?" he asked.

The Doctor was lying flat on the floor still, with one arm over Sarah Jane's chest. "I believe so, Gharman. That sounded like a matter disintegrator on minimum aperture. If it isn't safe, lying down on the floor won't stop it."

The Kaled scientist got up, cautiously, and saw that part of the laboratory's glassware array had fallen over, split across a straight line. Like some incredibly thin knife had sliced through them at shoulder height. He reached out and touched one of the glass cylinders that seemed undamaged - and it split right along the same line as the other damaged equipment. The upper half fell and shattered on the table.

"Incredible," he murmured.

 

* * *

Elsewhere in the darkened Bunker complex, there was frantic work going on. Hands were stripping filing cabinets bare, and refilling them with different files that had been prepared in advance. In the absence of power, computer terminals were having their memory racks removed wholesale and replaced with new memory.

"There will be mistakes," said a voice in the gloom, and was answered by five identical voices speaking in eerie unison.

"They will be corrected. This event is too conveniently timed, we must take advantage of it."

The shadowy labour continued.

 

* * *

The video system in the main laboratory was now receiving power. Its screen glowed, illuminating the scientists gathered around it. Tear tracks shone wet on Security Liaison's face; she impatiently wiped them off on her  arm .

"Gentlemen, you will find this of consuming interest," said Security Liaison. "We have a large and dangerous quantity of radioactive material to dispose of, and we are going to dispose of it now."

"We who?" asked Ronson.

"I want that bomb out of here!" snapped Davros.

Security Liaison tapped a control and the screen showed a room in the Bunker. A group of people in heavy protective gear was leaving it, and behind them in the middle of the room sat the ominous shape of the City-Buster superbomb.

"Watch the radiation meter in the wall," said Security Liaison; on the screen, they could all see the needle practically locked against its highest setting. "And now…"

A lone figure came into the room, rolling a tall metal-and-glass contraption in front of him - or her, probably. The machinery was put beside the bomb, and immediately the glass tube that formed the core of it came alight with flickering, dancing patterns. The figure returned and put a second and third device in place. Now all three of them were flashing.

"The power to disintegrate matter is very impressive, but the power to re-integrate it has a more striking application in context. These are particle fountains. They-"

Ronson interrupted her. "The meter! Look at it!" They all looked on as the radiation meter shown by the camera sank lower and lower, as though the radiation was being sucked out of the room.

Security Liaison went on. "The particle fountain is a device that forces atomic material into a lower energy level. It also can directly absorb background radiation energy and convert it into power to maintain its functions." She paused for a moment, as the overhead lights in the main laboratory came on, then continued. "It is strong enough to turn that bomb into a block of lead, and sophisticated enough to return irradiated tissue to its normal state." They could all see that the meter was registering hardly any radiation now. The person in protective gear returned, strolling up to the bomb - and then with a slashing gesture, smashed a fist down directly onto the trigger!

They all jumped; Kavell shrieked. He was clutching his chest like a man shocked half to death - which he probably was. Security Liaison scowled, touched her microphone, and said, "That was uncalled for."

The figure on the screen dragged off its protective hood. A familiar face, a Red Hexagon woman, looked directly at the camera and positively smirked, "But very dramatic, you must admit."

"Spectacular, in fact," said the Doctor, who had come in unnoticed and was looking over Ronson's shoulder. "And you say it's actually safe to use it on living tissue?"

"Yes it is, Doctor. I'm pleased to see that you survived," said Security Liaison.

"Thanks to your warning. But this is extraordinary!" The Doctor beamed at her. "Do you have any idea of how many worlds are hopelessly irradiated and unfit for life? This device could change the universe!"

"Thank you. We are planning on calling it the Kaled particle fountain, but of course we may also name it the Davros particle fountain."

"What?" said Davros.

Security Liaison turned to the Kaled scientist, and blinked innocently. "But of course, it is based on your research. It should be named for you. It is yours."

 

* * *

"Incredible," whispered one of the Kaled Councilmen, and there were murmurs of agreement from the mostly-empty table. "A destroyer of radiation - if we could smuggle one of these close to the Thal dome, we could drain their power system, render their atomics useless!"

One of the Daughters standing around the room coughed, and turned off the monitor they had been watching. "And if we plant a series of these through the Wastelands, we can render them non-radioactive as well. And cleanse the flesh of the Kaled soldiers who have been exposed to radiation."

She came close to the table, and laid both hands on it, and looked at them. Five Councilmen remained, those who had been brought back to consciousness and had convinced the Daughters of their absolute opposition to Mogran's schemes. Most surprisingly, Councilman Mah, who had been presumed dead for the last few months, had been spirited out of nowhere, and now sat with the other Councilmen.

A series of red folders were being collated in the corner, and were now placed in front of each of the Councilmen. "Gentlemen, we have even more urgent business to attend to. This is critical information that has not been made available to you, and I strongly suggest you start reading. You have a decision to make, the most important one of your lives. A decision that will change the destiny of yourselves and your planet, forever."

With several querulous back-and-forth looks between them, the Councilmen opened the folders and started to read. As they did, the Daughter looked on, and at the first gasp of horror, she smiled. Subtly.

 

* * *

Security Liaison burst into a blazing smile at the sight of Commander Nyder, whole and unharmed, entering the main laboratory with his men. Nyder didn't even notice, and the smile vanished in an instant. Only Sarah saw the brief change in the Kaled woman's expression, and what she felt was pity. Whatever warmth Security Liaison felt for the Commander, she was certain the feeling was not reciprocated.

"Davros, you-"

"Nyder!" Davros' shout was raw and hoarse, and he  swivelled his chair with a jerk to face the Commander. "I have been attacked, my work has been attacked, here in the Bunker, here where you are in charge of Security. I could have been killed! All our work, the sole chance for our species' survival, could have been wiped out in an instant! The Daleks could have been destroyed. Destroyed! What do you have to say for your failure?"

"I," and Nyder choked. He had seen Davros lash out in the past, but not at him, not like this. The Security men behind him subtly backed away, as though distancing themselves from the Commander. Nyder desperately went on, "I did-"

"There has been no time for a threat analysis, Davros," said Security Liaison, moving a little closer to Nyder's side. "Commander-"

"Commander Nyder is going to report to my office, at once, where his dereliction will be reviewed and punished. Now!" and Davros spun and wheeled away.

The Doctor had never seen a man so clearly torn between his duties; if Nyder had been a fissionable being, he would definitely have gone in two directions at once. He had to obey Davros' order, but the Bunker had been attacked, his men wounded, everything in disarray. He looked around himself for a moment, as though lost.

Security Liaison leaned her head to Nyder's and said in a tight voice, "Review the security breach; determine the status of personnel with main priority to Captain Tane; report back to you at once. Sir?"

"Go!" he ordered, and they both left the laboratory in opposite directions. With a sharp gesture, Security Liaison ordered the Security men to follow her; they did.

 

* * *

The main entrance to the Bunker wasn't an entrance anymore; it was a room-shaped hole loosely packed with broken concrete slabs and smashed equipment. And smashed men too. Red Hexagon women and Bunker medical personnel were extracting the survivors and hauling them away. At this point, everyone was too busy to observe that there suddenly more than five Red Hexagon at work.

Security Liaison swiftly picked her way through the wreckage, moving in quick starts, checking every step. The Security men with her fanned out and started helping the wounded. When she managed to get to the far side of the entry, she found Captain Tane who was, miraculously enough, alive.

Somehow the blast had flipped Tane's desk backwards, and left him pinned under it. He had been shielded from the shrapnel and luckily nothing heavy had fallen on him besides the desk, but from the position of his body, both of his legs must be broken. High up, compound fractures.

A Red Hexagon woman, wearing a surgical mask to keep out the dust, was working beside Tane, giving him anti-shock and painkiller treatment. He was still conscious, face white with concrete dust and eyes wide and wet with pain. He should have been screaming, but instead he breathed in sharp little gasps between his clenched teeth.

Tane's eyes were blurring, but he could see the black-gloved hands of the person who crouched in the tiny space beside him. It was Nyder, but the face was wrong, too round. Through the thudding pain in his head, he heard a voice ask him, "Tane? Tane, the Bunker has been attacked. Davros is safe, the attack has been repelled. What happened, Tane? Davros needs to know, now." The voice was wrong, this must be Security Liaison, not Nyder.

Tane sneezed abruptly; the Red Hexagon women mopped at his nose. He tossed his head, and rasped, "There was nothing, no warning. Nothing on the cameras, the motion sensors, it was all clear and then it all fell in on me. On us. My men…?"

"They're getting the best treatment we can give them. Tane, you're certain there was no activity in the entry tunnel?"

"Nothing," he spasmed and actually felt something part in his right leg at the movement, "nothing to see. They must have blown out the wall, I don't know how."

The gloved hand touched his cheek, which was probably the only part of him not throbbing with pain. "Thank you, Tane. Firla, get him to the Medical Wing. I'll be in Records and then in Davros' office." The two Red Hexagon women leaned together a moment, their heads touching.

"Good luck," said Firla as Security Liaison slipped away.

 

* * *

As she went to Davros' office, Security Liaison was struck by an image of some mad game being played out. People dashing around under a thunderstorm waving lightning rods, trying to confuse the lightning into not striking. Davros was the lightning; his mind was that fast, that sharp, that lethally precise. And they were running out of distractions to throw in his way.

Not long now, though.

Davros had locked the door to his office. Of course. Security Liaison pulled a button-sized device out of her pocket, and waved her hand in front of the lock. The door opened and she slipped inside, and looked with dismay at what she saw. Nyder was standing before Davros, in shock, looking like a tree about to topple. Rootless - or blasted by lightning. Davros was quivering with rage.

"My resignation will be on your desk in the morning, sir," said Nyder, in a voice completely dead.

"It will not, because I am going to have you shot tonight!" seethed Davros. "How could you let this happen! How could you endanger me and my work with your incompetence!"

"Commander Nyder is not incompetent and he is not going to resign," said Security Liaison in a clear, cold voice, moving further into the room. Her clothes were still covered with the dust of the main entrance's remains. "And you are not going to shoot him."

"You dare to-" began Davros.

Her voice snapped out like a whip. "Be silent and learn, Davros!"

Both men froze, and her voice went on, "We are all betrayed, Davros. Betrayal planned decades ago, by the original creation of this Bunker. Men long dead. Here is the proof." She unrolled the blueprints she was carrying and gave a corner of them to Nyder to hold; numbly he did so. She pointed at one section of them.

"Here. The Bunker entry tunnel has several bends in it, to prevent a siege engine from coming down it. But this bend here serves a second purpose. There was a concealed tunnel from this side to the wall abutting the Bunker entrance, and shaped charges built into the wall - here. No way to detect them from the Bunker, no way to find them at all - unless you knew how to detonate them. And somebody did."

"I have been betrayed by my own people, then. Who?" shouted Davros. "What Kaled has dared betray me?"

"It was Councilmen Mogran. He shot Councilman Verro, and was ready to execute the rest of the Council as well. It was Mogran who betrayed the Bunker, and all the Kaled people with it. He discovered a City-Buster atomic weapon. Kept it hidden."

Security Liaison made the sound of spitting, her teeth bared. "How many Kaled women have been irradiated, have had their children born dead just so that political fumbler could keep his nasty little war toy? And Mogran had the plans to breach the Bunker hidden in his files, plus the electronic  cut-outs to override the security cameras. The Red Hexagon staff in the Dome are reviewing his other files, our results will be ready for you within the hour."

"My projections for progressive radiation contamination of the Dome were always unable to account for actual results. This is why," snarled Davros. "There was an interior source of radiation! How can I be expected to complete my work when I am not given correct information!" He swerved his chair to face Security Liaison square on. "And you, hiding information from me as well! Every day, every hour, you spring your surprises, your traps on me! Why are you doing this to me? Why!"

Security Liaison's face - sagged, as though suddenly full of grief. Before she could answer, Davros spoke again.

"I am not safe," Davros grated, returning to the thing that had wounded him the most. "Not safe even here!"

That concern she could answer. "You are safe, Davros. Mogran has lost all power, and is a fugitive, as are his accomplices. The Council is in disarray, but your supporters are in charge now. Davros, you are safe, but you can be safer." Security Liaison leaned forward, projecting encouragement with her face and voice. "Security has been decimated by this attack on the Bunker. Activate the Daleks, now, in force. There are enough casings ready, have the creatures installed and you can protect yourself and the Bunker from any threat."

Nyder's eyes moved to Security Liaison. What was she up to? She did not notice his look and waited, breathless, as Davros considered her suggestion. Then the scientist responded.

"Commander Nyder. Your resignation is refused. You will have twenty of the mutants placed in their casings by the Elite. They are to begin integration into the defences of the Bunker at once. The Elite are to begin analysis of the matter disintegrator and particle fountain. Proceed with my orders."

Nyder clicked his heels in salute, and left with Security Liaison trailing behind him. Once the door to Davros' office closed behind them, he rounded on her and snapped, "Report!"

"The main entrance has been practically obliterated, it will take heavy equipment to make it usable. Tane is badly injured and will not be able to return to duty for some time. Eleven other guards are dead; an additional five are too injured to stand shift. There are not enough Security personnel available to  adequately protect the Bunker. Dome Security is in chaos, they can't supply men until Mogran's fellow conspirators are found and neutralised. The Daleks are necessary if we are not to be overrun by Thals. Or deserters. Or Mutos armed with sharp sticks." Security Liaison's posture was rigid, but inside she was sighing with relief. She had gotten Nyder out of the room with Davros. For the moment, they were both safe.

Commander Nyder tried to think of how there could be a trick in integrating more Daleks. Then he stopped thinking of it, because if there was any such trick, Davros would have seen and countered it. So he moved on to his next issue.

"How did you open that door?" asked Nyder, pointing behind them at the door to Davros' office.

"Give me your hand," was her reply.

Nyder frowned, and made no move to comply. Security Liaison looked up at him. "I promise to give it back when I'm done," she said mildly.

He held out one hand, tense and ready to pull it back. Security Liaison turned his hand palm-up, and fastened a tiny red snap to the bottom edge of his glove, under his wrist. "This is an electronic master passkey. It will open every door in the Bunker at a touch, and the Dome besides."

"How did you come to acquire this device?" he asked.

"I needed it, so I made it." Security Liaison withdrew her hands from around Nyder's, and he looked at the passkey - hexagonal of course. He returned his hand to clasp the other behind his back. He had a thousand questions that he was going to get answered, preferably under proper interrogation. But he found himself fulfilling his own personal curiosity first. "What does that mean - 'Be silent and learn'?"

"It was something that one of Davros' teachers used to shout at him. I thought it would freeze him for long enough, and it did." She stepped back.

"I have more questions for you, Security Liaison."

"Surely carrying out Davros' orders is more important at this time. For later, sir, if you were to look for me, you absolutely should not look in the room behind the Red Hexagon quarters." She looked at Nyder and almost winked, but not quite.

Commander Nyder did nothing to acknowledge her answer. But his eyes followed Security Liaison as she trotted down the corridor on her own mysterious business.

 

* * *

Nyder found Gharman in the main laboratory; the other scientists were in a flurry of activity, comparing computer printouts, while Gharman sat and stared mutely at one particular page in front of him. Inappropriate as it was to keep the laboratory active with minimal Security personnel to monitor the scientists, Davros would surely be furious if anyone suggested that they suspend work until more guards could be transferred from the Dome. As the Commander came to his desk, the scientist looked up and said, "Yes?" a bit distractedly.

"Have you performed any analysis of the matter disintegrator?"

"Analysis? I don't need any analysis." Gharman ran his fingers through his hair, and showed Nyder an expression of pure exasperation. "When the computer came back online, we searched for Davros' initial research results. They were there, Nyder, and so was every step that the Elite took to build, test and perfect the matter disintegrator."

Nyder frowned. "The Elite?"

Gharman interrupted him. "But we didn't! We never worked on such a device, all these records are false! Unless," and Gharman leaned back in his chair, staring suddenly at some terrible internal vision, "unless our memories have been tampered with somehow." His frightened eyes met Nyder's cold gaze.

"And the particle fountain?" the Commander asked, unmoved.

Gharman nodded. "The same; all the records are in the computer, and in the paper files. Everything tested, cross-referenced, initialised and dated. And all fake. But the results are real - I think. Nyder, do you realise that we could stop the progress of radiation into the Kaled dome with these? Decontaminate the areas that are unusable now? We could reclaim the Wastelands, given time. When the war is over."

"Interesting," allowed Nyder. Then he went back to business. "I will have to review the computer access logs, and discover when they were changed. Now, Davros orders that twenty of the creatures be installed in the Dalek casings, to supplement Bunker security."

Gharman swallowed, and said carefully, "I don't think that is wise, Nyder."

"Why not?" he snapped.

"Last night one of the creatures died. It was one of the most recent - generation, with all of Davros' most recent genetic modifications. The dissection revealed that it was murdered."

"Murdered? What do you mean?"

"By the other creatures. There were marks on it. Tooth marks, claw marks." Gharman's intensity went up a notch. "The creatures are killing each other, Nyder. We cannot predict what will happen if we arm them and turn them loose in the Bunker as Daleks!"

"Has Davros been appraised of this?" asked Nyder flatly.

"Yes, it was in this morning's report. But-"

"Then he will have taken it into account. His predictions will be accurate. Now carry out his orders." Nyder strode out, past Ronson at his desk. After the door had closed behind the Commander, the Doctor and Sarah Jane slipped out from behind one of pillars and sat back down. Since there were no Security guards to spare for prisoner escort, Ronson had suggested the Doctor be interrogated about the matter disintegrator in the main laboratory. Or to put it in more non-Security terms, that the Doctor was too valuable an information resource to spend all his time in a cell.

The Doctor promptly scooped up one of the matter disintegrator parts and examined it. "Beautifully engineered casing," he commented. "Shame about the circuits all shrivelling away to nothing when it was exposed to air."

Ronson flinched at the Doctor's words, as though at some memory. "This weapon is totally unlike any Kaled technology in existence. I can dimly see how the basic principles could have been derived from Davros' research, but!" The Kaled scientist shook his head, then looked around the laboratory. Boldly, he gestured Gharman to join them. After a cautious look at the lone Security guard remaining, Gharman did so.

The Doctor leaned over as though showing Gharman the disintegrator part, and said, "What did Nyder want?"

"Davros orders that twenty of the mutants be installed in their casings," said Gharman, and swallowed. "I suppose I will have to start the automated production line."

Sarah Jane gasped, and the Doctor's large eyes grew even larger. "Gharman, if you do that, it means the end of everything. Once the Daleks are in control…"

"I don't know that, and neither do you. If I don't follow Davros' orders, he will order what is left of Security to arrest me. There are always Kaled military scientists  manoeuvring  to be transferred to the Bunker."

"But you are the best, aren't you? The Elite. You can't be easily replaced." The Doctor leaned forward, intense. "Gharman, you cannot do this! The Scientific Elite must outnumber Security right now. Once the Daleks are in a position of power, they will act to keep that power indefinitely. Delay the activations, say you need more time to prepare the casings, to transfer the creatures, anything!" The Doctor's appeal was almost frenzied.

"But the Elite cannot defend the Bunker. We don't have the training for it, or the manpower. The Thals are making desperate strikes now, they've penetrated the outer defences of the Bunker twice in the last year. Without the Daleks, we'll be overrun and killed. If we rebel against Davros, we will only die ourselves." Gharman rose, and looked down at the aliens. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I have to think of all of us. We, and the Daleks, are our races' last chance of survival."

Grimly, aware of the scientists' eyes on him, Gharman went to one of the instrument panels and keyed a series of switches. A light began to blink on the panel, steadily. The Dalek production line had started.


	9. Peace Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She breathed deeply. "This is the end of one thing and the beginning of a thousand more, and it is more dangerous than the War itself. After this night, nothing can ever be the same. We've won!" Seventh Leader looked exalted. "Now let the people know."

In the Red Hexagon's auxiliary storage facility, an elaborate metal chair had been dragged forward. There were controls fastened to both chair arms that looked like the ones on Davros' computer access device.

Security Liaison was sitting in the chair. A heavy metal circlet studded with wires was pulled down over her eyes; it looked like the one she had used with the access device, but this one had multiple bundles of cables leading in and out of it. Her gloved hands moved in a deliberate pattern on the chair's controls. Around the chair was a circle of prosaic-looking buckets.

The door opened and Commander Nyder entered. He stopped in the doorway, and looked over the chair, the buckets, and the seven women in surgical masks. Seven.

Where were they all coming from, he asked himself.

"And you are?" he demanded.

"I am Memory Compiler Three. These are Memory Compiler Seven, Medical Technician Eight, Technicians Fourteen, Twenty One and Thirty Three, and Assistant Memory Compiler Two."

"And where are the Laboratory Assistants?"

"Selaa is - dead. Firla is assisting in the medical bay. Thila and Fola are working on the power system." The masked woman who had answered glared at Security Liaison over her mask, but her words were to Nyder. "That door should not have opened."

"Commander Nyder has a Red Hexagon passkey device," said Security Liaison. Her lower lip swelled momentarily in what might have been a pout of defiance.

"We have no chair for the Commander," said Memory Compiler Three; her tone suggested that if he left, this would not be a problem.

"I prefer to stand," he said. It would give him a clearer range of fire if he decided to drop some or all of them. Davros might want a specimen.

Nyder came forward (the standing women all moved back) and looked into one of the buckets; it was full almost to the top with what looked like shiny steel wool, which moved a bit. The wool was pulled out into long streamers that were crimped and sealed into cables, and then attached to the chair. He thought to reach into one bucket, and then stopped himself. That movement looked deliberate.

"And these are?" he asked arrogantly.

"Heads, sir."

"Heads?"

One of the other women stepped forward. "We have infused the heads of the Bunker's attackers with oxygen to prevent deterioration, and then allowed flowmetal grafts to combine themselves with the neural tissue. As a result, these men's memories can be accessed, recorded, and compiled."

"Interrogating the dead," said Nyder, slowly, his eyes a bit too wide. "This technique would have been quite useful to me in the past."

"Of course, sir." She turned and flipped a switch on a junction box between the cables and the chair, and Security Liaison screamed in agony.

Her body convulsed in the chair - from the neck down. Her head was immobile, and one of the other women simply grabbed her jaw and stuffed a gag into her mouth. She clenched the cloth in her mouth and kept screaming - much more quietly of course. Even as she heaved, her forearms and hands were rock-steady on the chair's controls.

"The procedure is painful?" asked Nyder. He looked on at Security Liaison's anguish with a distinct lack of empathy.

"She is re-experiencing his death from his point of view. After she has endured that, she will be able to access his past."

"Can't those memories be bypassed? This seems - inefficient." Nyder knew how these women prized efficiency.

"Why should we bypass them? She killed him, she should feel his death," was the puzzled reply.

"But they can be bypassed."

"Yes, but-"

"Thank you, that's what I wanted to know." If they could be bypassed, this technique would be invaluable. Never again would a prisoner who had accidentally expired during interrogation escape his grasp.

Nyder noticed a ninth bucket that was not yet attached to the chair; it looked the same as the rest, except for the coloured string tied to the handle. Red for Red Hexagon, perhaps, which meant-

"Selaa?" he said, tapping the bucket with his toe.

"Yes, Commander," said Memory Compiler Three, swooping in and picking up the bucket, and holding it to her chest with both arms. "She saved your life with hers."

"And Security Liaison must suffer her death as well? As I recall a bullet killed her, not the disintegration beam."

She hugged the bucket closer to her chest, and looked down into Nyder's eyes. He had almost forgotten that all of the Red Hexagon were taller than him, save for Security Liaison. "She ordered Second Laboratory Assistant to her death. If she had truly gained your trust, she could have found a way to avoid that."

"Trust?" Nyder did not laugh, because he never did. But he felt something strange moving in him for a moment, and crushed it. "I will never trust any of you."

Without replying, the woman turned and flipped the switch on the box; Security Liaison stopped convulsing, and slumped limp in the chair. The damp gag rolled out of her mouth.

"Report, Security Liaison," said the woman.

"His name was Rian 08761100. He was an excellent shot, a fine fighter, and a good Kaled citizen. Councilman Mogran recruited him personally to serve as a Council Chamber guard. He received his orders to bring this to the Bunker within the last three hours. He loved his people. He died for them." The words spilled out in a flat monotone, but the tears trickling out from under the metal blindfold suggested something other than lack of emotion.

"Excellent," was the reply. "Only four more, then. And Second Laboratory Assistant, of course."

Nyder turned a bit, and his elbow sent a pile of folders sliding off one of the file cabinets and around his feet. With a little cry of dismay, Memory Compiler Three put down her bucket and started scooping them up, halting only when Nyder's gloved hand came over her shoulder and picked up a glossy photograph. Nyder stood back up, looking at the picture.

It was taken in a Bunker corridor, and showed himself, Davros and Security Liaison; Davros was apparently briefing them. Each of the figures in the crisp black-and-white photo was overlaid with a strange filament pattern of colours.

Security Liaison was the most startling; her entire outline was fringed in vivid blue and red streaks that converged to a white core somewhere in her chest. Nyder's figure had a similar overlay, but thinner, broken somehow. Fewer lines, and the colours all faded pale yellows or dark purples. Davros was the only one who looked normal, with no colours around him.

"What is this?" asked Nyder.

Memory Compiler Three rose and took the picture, slipping it back into the folder she was reassembling. "It relates to the compilation of personality wheel data. An automated method of capturing certain information." She hesitated, then went on, "Sir, there is an order that Davros has given us that you should know about."

"If it is necessary that I know about it, he will tell me," said Nyder. Inside he was a little piqued that the order had not come through him.

"Davros has ordered us to schedule the implantation of the Bunker Scientific Elite with neural transmission arrays. When we explained that this would result in brain damage, he was unconcerned with this side effect. If the Elite were implanted, those that survived - they would lose their personality, their selfhoods. They would become nothing more than vessels for Davros' will."

"And?" said Nyder.

"And we are also asked to process the Security Elite in this fashion." The woman swallowed. "All of them."

"Not me," said Nyder, a little too quickly.

"All of them," she repeated.

The gag was stuffed back into Security Liaison's mouth; she bit down on it and gave a noise of approval. Another switch was thrown, and she screamed. Nyder watched her agony, and thought his own thoughts.

* * *

"I won't sign that," snapped Councilman Gelc, who had been found hiding in the hydroponics section and unceremoniously dumped in the Council chamber; there was still green nutrient fluid on his fingers. He glared around at the other Council members, and glared more poisonously at the Daughters hovering over them. "You must be mad, if you think any Councilman is going to sign it!"

Without replying, Councilman Mah leaned forward, pulled the large sheet of paper covered with script close to him, and added his name to the bottom with a flourish. Then he pushed it back to the  centre of the table, and sat back in his chair.

"I think that this can succeed," he said. "It will succeed, if we put all of our power behind it. Such as that is." He frowned at Gelc as he went on. "And if this is the reaction of Mogran's followers on the Council, of whom you are currently the last, I cannot fault the Thals for presenting their information to Davros and the Elite first."

"It is not a victory!" snarled Gelc. "It leaves the Thals alive to plot against us!"

"But neither is it an unconditional surrender. It leaves the last remnants of the Thals at a fair remove from us," said one of the other Councilmen, adding his signature to the bottom of the paper and passing it to his left. "We can seal the mountain passes between us and them. Disease, famine, environmental conditions - any of these could wipe the Thals out. This gives us time to heal, to rebuild."

"If the matter disintegrator is as powerful as you say," Gelc half-shouted at the nearest Daughter, "why don't you use it to destroy the Thal dome? Win the war tonight!"

"Because the Thals would counter strike, with their new weapon. And if we did strike first, we would leave the majority of the Thal soldiers in the field, with nowhere to retreat to." The Daughter sighed, and shook her head. "I am getting very angry with you, Councilman Gelc, irrationally angry, and I should not. We are giving you a chance to publicly distance yourself from Mogran's suicidal rebellion and join the winning side!"

"I will not sign it," the defiant Councilman hissed through his teeth. "I will not surrender the future of the Kaled race, our assured victory, on the word of a bunch of women! I will not surrender this Council's will to Davros! I would as soon turn that disintegrator beam on the Bunker, kill the lot of the Elite!" Gelc was on the point of frothing at the mouth. "I wish that Mogran had succeeded in killing the lot of you, wiping you out at your source. That City-Buster would have saved us all!"

"It would have destroyed Davros, the Elite, and the disintegrator beam. And the particle fountain." The Daughter leaned on the table, heavily. In a low voice, she said, "I can't do this."

"Can't?" asked one of the other Daughters in the shadows.

She straightened from the table, and blinked tears out of her eyes. "I can't stand this." She reached out and gathered one of the masked Daughters to her side; they stood close as though whispering, heads touching, and then she said, "Second Leader-Apprentice, you are now Seventh Leader. Take over. And give me your armband."

With an alarmed murmur, a red armband was pressed forward; she took it and unrolled it into a long sheer strip of red cloth. She tied it over her hair and eyes, as though blindfolding herself; but her dark eyes could still be seen through the cloth.

"I give up my role," she said clearly. "I am no longer Sixth Leader."

The other Daughters bowed; Gelc and the Councilmen looked on, confused. The Daughter who was apparently Seventh Leader stepped forward.

"Get him over the table," she said, indicating Gelc. And pointing to the blindfolded woman, "Get her an axe."

Gelc fought of course, but he was outnumbered. Mah rose and said to Seventh Leader, "You can't do this!" She whispered something in his ear, and he stepped back.

The blindfolded Daughter returned, carrying not an axe but an entrenching shovel. At the sight of it, Gelc screamed, and kept screaming. His screams echoed off the walls. The guard who had tried to help Harry escape was held thrashing between two gas-masked Daughters. The Councilmen got up and backed away from the table where Gelc was being held face-down. Some argued with Mah, whose soothing words could barely be made out over the screaming. The shovel came up in her hands, edge bright.

And came down.

It buried itself in the table rather than the man's neck, the sharpened edge only a hair from the bridge of Gelc's nose. His eyes crossed staring at it.

"Gelc," snarled the blindfolded woman, "you are no longer Councilman. You are cast out of the Council. You will be assigned to work where you are no longer a threat to the peace, and where you can repent of your poisonous attitudes towards the Kaled people. If you must glory in the pain of others, nourish yourself on this: I have given up my role as Leader because of you."

Gelc was hauled up and out of the Council chamber, and the Daughter followed behind him, her shovel over her shoulder. They passed an older woman, not a Daughter, who walked to the Council chamber and took the chair recently vacated by Gelc.

"I am Dynna, leader of the Womens' Quarters," she said, and glared around at a muffled noise from one of the  Councilmen . With weary sarcasm, she went on, "I believe that Councilmen are chosen because they represent a certain portion of the Kaled population? Well, Gelc was head of the Womens' Committee, but I have never seen or heard from him before this day. If any of you gentlemen would like to say that you know more about women than myself, then please raise your voice No?" She leaned forward, pulled the paper to her, and laboriously traced her name at the bottom of it, with the attitude of someone unused to writing. "There."

Mah returned to his seat, and slumped. "We have to trust in Davros. We must have peace, and this is our best chance."

Seventh Leader took up the paper, now signed by all the remaining Councilmen. "Excellent. I will leave you now; you have many things to discuss. May I suggest that the Council's immediate agenda include how we are going to provide for the soldiers who will be returning to the Dome? The particle fountains are being deployed; Section Tyy of the Dome is already radiation-free. The Daughters of Davros stand ready to assist you in all things, of course."

She bowed and withdrew, with the paper. Outside the Council chamber, she handed it to another Daughter and ordered, "Mass duplication, and send the Thal's information to the Bunker."

"Communications are still out, Mogran's men tossed a grenade in the radio room."

"Then send a courier!" She breathed deeply. "This is the end of one thing and the beginning of a thousand more, and it is more dangerous than the War itself. After this night, nothing can ever be the same. We've won!" Seventh Leader looked exalted. "Now let the people know."

* * *

Commander Nyder was talking on the communications box in the corridor to Davros.

"There are Red Hexagon everywhere in the Bunker, there are at least seven in the next room!" he said urgently. "I don't know how they got in here, or what-"

"Perhaps with communications with the Dome temporarily severed, this would be a good time to do some - housecleaning." Davros' voice rang metallically from the speaker. "You will gather what security forces are available. Use the Daleks if necessary. Arrest the Red Hexagon women and confine them on the detention level. Immediately detain Security Liaison, she is not to be physically injured. Keep her safe for me." Keep her organs, her nerves, her limbs and her retinas safe, he meant.

With almost a smile, Nyder unsnapped the flap of his holster. Two of the remaining Security guards came by on patrol; he took them in with him. Using the passkey, he opened the door to the hidden room and came face to face with Security Liaison. And nobody else.

"Search this room," he ordered his men, who separated and started to do so.

"You are to be placed in detention, Davros orders it," Nyder snapped, and Security Liaison nodded her head in assent and then just stood there.

"Nothing," said one of the Security men as they finished their search. "No sign of anyone, Commander."

"We're leaving," and they proceeded to the lift. When the lift door opened, Security Liaison stepped in first, and then turned and graciously gestured, as though inviting the others to accompany her. Only Nyder did, dismissing the two Security men back to their duties. He kept his hand on the butt of his gun, just in case.

He chose one of the empty cells on the detention level, and shoved Security Liaison into it much too hard, hard enough to send her sprawling. Her look over her shoulder as she fell was gravely curious, not alarmed or hurt, as the door closed between them.

* * *

"Selaa!" said Kavell, with a relieved smile. He moved a little too fast to the Red Hexagon woman's side as she walked down the corridor, and she stopped and smiled at him. "I thought you might have been hurt."

"I'm fine - now," she said. "But I have to leave for the Dome in a little while. This is information that should be distributed to the staff. The papers were couriered from the Dome." She handed him a red folder, and then took him by the wrist. "Kavell," she said urgently, "give them to Gharman and the Elite first. Not Davros."

Kavell looked at her, confusion on his face. "That's strictly against regulations. All communications in or out of the Bunker are to go through Davros."

"Look at the first page," she suggested, and he did so. His mouth fell open, and he looked back up at her with an expression of shock and delight. Then he turned and fled.

Selaa watched him go, a smile on her face. Then she touched the corridor wall beside her, and a hidden door opened in it. She slipped inside and the door vanished just in time. A Security squad marched by, but there was no trace of the Red Hexagon woman.

 

* * *

The Doctor was leading a debate among the Kaled scientists; the lone Security guard by the door was looking more and more nervous, but did not quite dare to raise his gun and order everyone to sit.

'This is your chance," the Time Lord said, in an urgent whisper. "Davros can't stop you, but you can stop Davros! You can wipe out your research, destroy the Daleks! For that matter," he turned to Gharman, "if the particle fountains can remove background radiation, doesn't that mean that Skaro will not be contaminated in the future? That your descendants will not be hopelessly mutated?"

Gharman was mute, his mouth a little open. "Yes!" he finally whispered.

One of the other scientist objected. "But we still need to win the war, Doctor. We need the resources to build and deploy the fountains. We can't just put them out there in the Wastelands, the Thals or the Mutos will destroy them! We need the Daleks to save our people."

"Any chance of convincing  the Thals that the particle fountains are in both your interests?" asked the Doctor. "Coming to an agreement on them?"

"Unlikely," said Gharman. "They would think it was a trick, or reverse engineer the fountains to use against us. Turn them into radiation projectors, maybe."

Kavell came into the laboratory, and staggered. Sarah Jane saw him waver, and went to his side, saying. "Are you all right?"

"Yes? Yes, I am. Gharman, I have to talk to him." He blinked almost blindly, then went and pulled Gharman aside by the elbow. Urgently, he said, "This report came from the Dome, you have to read it."

"What, now? No, we have to start redoing our projections of Skaran contamination levels. If we can show Davros proof-"

"Listen to me, Gharman! The Thals have announced that they have a new weapon, a weapon that will end the war. It's a, well I don't quite understand it; they call it a telepathy bomb. They say that it destroys thoughts. Wipes brains clean!"

"What?" said the Doctor, aghast. "That's abominable!"

"But there's more," said Kavell, now holding the attention of all the scientists. "They're created a fungus, a whole series of fungi really, that can absorb toxic chemicals out of the soil and turn them into inert elements! Arsenic, mercury, toxic gas residue, explosives contamination - anything!"

The scientists were excitedly discussing this, and the Security guard finally felt he had to break it up. He came forward and said, "You have to get back to your stations."

"No, you all have to know this now! Everyone has to know. The Kaled Council sent the Thals footage of the matter disintegrator and the particle fountain, and, and!" Kavell was stuttering with excitement.

"That's well and good, Kavell, but we have to get back to work," said Gharman, eyeing the Security guard. "Davros will insist-"

"Oh, prong Davros!" shouted Kavell, instantly capturing the shocked attention of every Kaled in the room. Sarah Jane held back a laugh at their expressions.

Kavell held out a sheet of paper in a trembling hand. "It's an armistice, they're calling it a Solstice Armistice." A pause, while Kavell caught his breath and everyone else gasped out theirs. "A permanent Peace Accord, they're scheduling a formal signing by the government tomorrow. It's peace. It's the end of the war!" And Kavell sobbed aloud, with happiness.

The scientists gathered around Kavell, and he handed around the papers from the folder. The Security guard lowered his weapon and came forward as well, reading eagerly over their shoulders. There was a blur of confused statements from everyone - "There hasn't been a solstice cease-fire in hundreds of years!" "It's really over?" "It can't be true!" "I don't understand."

Sarah Jane gave the Doctor an impulsive one-armed hug. At his lack of response, she asked, "Isn't it what you wanted? If the war is over, the Dalek project will be shut down!" But the Doctor was looking at Gharman, who was reading one of the sheets of paper with a growing look of horror.

Gharman raised his voice to the scientists and said, "Check the computers, and see what data you can extract about this - telepathy bomb. And the Thal fungi. I think you will find more than we expected." As the scientists went back to their stations, still smiling and eagerly talking, the Doctor went to Gharman and asked, "Trouble?"

"According to this document," said Gharman carefully, "the Elite, and Davros, have already reviewed the Thal data, and sent their recommendation to the Council. Davros himself is quoted as saying that this technology is the equal of the particle fountain and the matter disintegrator, and that both sides should negotiate for peace and a mutual sharing of technology for the betterment of both!"

Gharman shook his head. "And Davros would never, ever say that. I know him too well, he hates the enemy too deeply to ever give the slightest ground to them."

"Rather like what you said about the matter disintegrator data appearing in your computer systems unannounced." The Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose in thought, and then took the piece of paper from Gharman. Holding it in front of his face, he said, "A mask."

"What?" asked Sarah, confused.

The Doctor lowered the sheet of paper so that only his eyes showed over it. "I think these new technologies, new weapons, are being introduced into your war with a purpose. And that someone is using Davros' name and the Elite's power and prestige like a mask, to disguise themselves and their purpose from the Kaled government."

"If so," said Gharman, "they are not being very subtle about letting us find out what they are doing."

"Yes, which leads to an interesting dilemma - how do they, whoever they are, keep you from revealing that you had no part in their actions? And conversely, how do you prove that you knew nothing of these weapons and technologies, when all the data and paperwork show otherwise?"

As the laboratory's staff went back to work with a strange mix of elation and confusion, one person who had heard Kavell's announcement did not feel any elation at all. In the back of the laboratory, a half-open door had allowed Commander Nyder to hear everything. Now he wished that he had shot Kavell before the scientist had gotten to the laboratory.

But that was no longer an option. Nyder silently slipped away, to report what he had heard to Davros.

"What!" shouted Davros after Nyder's report. Then he sat still for a minute, thinking. Two minutes. The time stretched out, and finally Nyder hissed, "Davros! What are we going to do?"

"You will go to the Dome at once," replied Davros.

"Not the Command Complex?"

"No, I need you to find out where the heart of this conspiracy lies. That answer will be found in the Dome and the Kaled Council. Get in touch with your spies face to face. I suggest interrogating one of the Red Hexagon first-"

"We have only Security Liaison, the rest have vanished."

"Interesting. But I will soon discover what role they played in this plot against me. The Daleks are taking over the Bunker Security functions, so I will be quite safe here."

Commander Nyder stalked down to the detention level, and opened a cell door. Security Liaison stood at attention, as though waiting for him. He entered the cell and glared at her. Without a word, he grabbed her right hand and rolled back the glove, confirming by the bruises left on her skin by Davros' grip that this really was Security Liaison. Then he released her and began to give his orders.

"We have a mysterious announcement from the Kaled government," he said flatly. "Davros orders me to go to the Dome and see what is happening with my own eyes. I believe that the Red Hexagon may know more about this situation than we do. You are going to tell me what you know."

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak he rapped out, "I want a serious, relevant, and above all brief reply, Security Liaison. There is no time for your levity."

"If by mysterious announcement you mean the Peace Accords?" she guessed, and Nyder nodded, while confirming to himself that Security Liaison knew too much about what was going on outside her cell. "In that case, stand-down and recall orders have been issued to all troops in the field. All Dome entrances will be manned and extremely busy. Medical and Supplies will be at maximum levels, to treat and feed the returnees. It is going to be chaotic, dangerous, and remarkably smelly; bathing is not a priority on a battlefield. I would recommend getting to the Administrative level, and then contacting your people from a secure office. You should not plan on being in the Dome past nightfall. And above all, above everything else, you absolutely should not be in Corridor Ki, Section Four, Level Three, in eighty minutes."

"And why is that?" asked Nyder.

She said, "There are going to be, let's call them informal terminations."

Executions, she must mean. "Of whom?"

"Of those who contribute nothing to the Kaled people, who feed on them like parasites, who actively damage society – but have always had the political connections or the guile to be protected. Now is the time to cut these cancers out of the Kaled body, wherever they may be hiding." Security Liaison's voice was cold. "To purge the race of the worst of the worst; the ones beyond saving. Those who are corrupt to the core."

Nyder felt his skin creep, the way it does when someone is talking about you, but you can't quite make out what they are saying. Security Liaison's eyes were locked on his face.

"Why are you telling me this?"

She touched him with just her fingertips and he pulled his arm away, sharply.

"Because you must know, Commander," she said, softly. "And because nobody else will tell you."

"Who are the - condemned?" he asked again.

Security Liaison clasped her hands behind her back and raised her chin. "Their names are Larrit, Refell, Arneti – "

She paused a dreadful beat. "And Nenno. Nenno 12499852, to be exact," she added.

Nyder's face was as impassive as ever, but there was nothing impassive about the way he grabbed her by the elbows and slammed her against the wall. When he moved closer to his captive, his still face cracked and let something awful show through.

"Nenno is dead. I know he is dead. I made sure of it," he whispered. His fingers sank into her upper arms, kneading.

"I am sorry, but Nenno lives. He knows secrets and scandals about everyone in power, and so has been allowed to conceal himself, and feed his loathsome appetites at will. He is - unforgivable, even by our standards. Now he will die. In Corridor Ki, Section Four, Level Three. Starting in seventy-eight minutes."

She leaned her head forward, and whispered, "Would you like to watch?"

"Oh, I think I must insist on it," he said softly, releasing her arms. They stared into each other's eyes, for once completely understanding each other's emotions.

She continued, "Wear old issue boots and a rain cloak. It will make it easier for you to blend in at the Dome, with all the returning soldiers. It might not be safe for you to be identified. Some of the soldiers are - erratic."

"Am I the reason that Nenno is to die?" he asked, wondering if this was an attempt to curry favour with him.

"Not you alone, Commander. Nenno was cruel to children, even as a child. His tastes have not grown kinder with age. It will not be tolerated. And – if you missed the chance to see him die, I knew that you never forgive me."

"Thank you for your information, Security Liaison." Nyder straightened himself, brushed an invisible bit of lint from one sleeve with stiff fingers, then turned and left. Security Liaison promptly stepped on top of her bunk, ran her thumb along the edge of the moulding of the ceiling, and extracted a length of wire. Touching it to one of the implants in her skull, she sat, her eyes darting fast behind her closed lids.


	10. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end-of-the-war party begins, and Harry is reunited with the Doctor and Sarah Jane. Warnings: particularly specific and gruesome torture in this chapter.

Harry Sullivan, dressed in a fresh set of surgeon's clothes, was looking for some help.

"Look," he said urgently to one of the Daughters as they walked down the corridor, "he refuses to let go. But if we don't get that boy into surgery now, he'll die."

"And all our staff are busy. I have a solution, I think." They went into the triage area, full of filthy, wounded soldiers. Many of the ones who were awake were smiling, some were weeping. They knew they would not be returning to the battlefield. But the man Harry approached was deathly grim, all of his attention focused on the too-young man who lay unconscious on the table. Both of his hands were locked urgently around his friend's arm.

"I'm not letting go," he growled. "I said I'd look after him, and I'm not letting go." His eyes were bright with tears and not a little madness.

The Daughter stepped forward, hands out to her sides and clearly visible. Harry had learned that habit too; these soldiers were beyond paranoid. She said, "Do you know what a stasis field is?"

The grim man shook his head.

"It stops time. If I put your friend into a stasis field-"

"I'm not letting go!" he shouted.

She went on doggedly. "If I put him and you, together, into a stasis field, you will both be frozen in time, and he won't get any worse. There will be no time for him to get worse, you understand? You don't have to let go. And when we have the doctors ready, we will unfreeze you both at once, and we will get to work. It is not dangerous, but it will be very startling. Everything will change in a flash. Can you remember that?"

The grim man blinked, and she asked again slowly, "Lieutenant, can you remember that?"

"Yes," he replied, and she stepped forward and started swabbing the unconscious man's bare arm with disinfectant. After it was clean, she quickly scrubbed the Lieutenant's hands and placed them on the clean spot.

"We'll be throwing sterile robes over on top of your gear too, don't fight them! Remember that! You have to take care of him, and you can do that by going into the stasis field with him. All right?"

"All right. And th-thank you." He nodded, and she wheeled a metal frame until it surrounded them on all sides, and hit a button. The two men abruptly froze, and she quickly drew curtains around them, hiding them. Then she leaned one shoulder on the curtains in a moment of exhaustion. Harry expected her to fall, but the curtain acted as though there was a solid wall behind it. He reached out and touched the curtain; it might have been hanging against a steel wall, rather than thin air.

"I'm glad we got those extra power wells in place," she said, scribbling on a clipboard and then hanging it on the corner of the frame. "We're putting more people into stasis than we had anticipated. And we're going to have a massive power drain starting soon."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"We're decanting," she said, and dashed back to work. Harry frowned, muttered "Decanting?" to himself, and then went to look at the three new wounded who had just been carried in. Two went in the queue for surgery; the third was fine after the application of a brace around his sprained ankle. Harry took several minutes reassuring him that he did not need to go back, that he could stay. That everyone was getting a discharge form, a place to sleep, and all the food they wanted. In his medical capacity, Harry obligingly scribbled his signature at the bottom of one of these forms (not that he could read the form, he just knew to sign in the purple box). The ex-soldier rose, testing his ankle, and Harry said, "Ah."

"Ah, what?"

"Ah, perhaps you could leave all that here?" All that was the mixed assortment of rifle, handguns, rusty knives, and grenades that were still slung around the ex-soldier's body on various straps.

"Oh. Right," and the soldier obligingly stripped them all off and piled them on the cot, where one of the  Daughters promptly spirited them away. The soldier watched his weapons go, and flexed his shoulders experimentally.

"I feel so light … and I really don't need a meal ticket book?"

"Really. Just show up and you're served," said Harry. With a smile and a clap on the arm, the ex-soldier limped out into the hallway. He excitedly grabbed the first passer-by he found, another soldier in a rain cloak, and said, "It's really true! The war's over!" In a burst of enthusiasm he hugged the man and limped on.

The other soldier tilted his head down under his hood. Cold eyes behind rimless glasses watched the man leave, taking note of his slovenly appearance, obvious fitness to serve, and the name on the man's uniform. Then Commander Nyder went on, to try and find another one of his contacts. Any of his contacts, really. But it was nearly impossible.

The party of the millennium was just beginning. Soldiers, civil servants, doctors, all united in one purpose: to celebrate the end of a thousand years of war. The noise was a constant background cheering, rising and falling over and over again. The words 'victory', 'survive', 'war', and 'Davros' were repeated over and over. Nobody he was looking for was at their assigned post: presumably they were taking part in the festivities.

There were even women wandering around - had they actually opened the Womens' Quarters? It was unheard of! But then he spotted a familiar face - a Red Hexagon woman, talking to a Kaled woman who was carrying a rifle. The armed woman looked at Nyder with a chill expression, and he pulled down his hood a bit and moved on.

He stopped at a message board, covered with completely illegal posted messages. Most of them were the scrawls of barely literate soldiers, looking for de-enlisted men from their squads, friends from training, or just advertising that they were back, that they had survived. But among them was a typed notice, saying that the Kaled Council was in indefinite session at an undisclosed location. Nyder sniffed: who were they fooling? The listed attendees were not even close to being a quorum. Multiple names had been struck out, and there were no replacements - no wait, at the bottom was a new name, Dynna. Dynna? Nyder frowned, wondering why someone with a woman's name was listed. It never even occurred to him that Dynna might be a woman.

Written under Dynna's name was Mah. But Mah couldn't be attending this Council meeting. Or any meeting, for that matter. Davros had ordered him assassinated, by-

Oh.

Security Liaison had carried out that particular order for Davros. She had assassinated Mah. And failed? But there had been an official announcement that Mah was dead. His replacement, Troc, presumably was meeting with the Council somewhere, which is why Nyder could not find and question him.

He bit at his own lip in frustration, then realised he had another appointment to keep.

 

* * *

General Ravon was alone in his headquarters.

Alone!

There should be soldiers to carry orders. This should be the brain from which the actions of the war streamed out. Instead there was just himself, and his map of the battlefield. The handful of units scattered there seemed like a mockery of proper war.

He'd completely given up on putting markers for the Thals now; there had been no reports that he could trust for too long. Under the heel of one of his boots, he ground the crumpled copy of the Armistice that had been delivered to him. He had discarded it there seconds after reading it.

There was a scuffling noise, and he turned and pointed his handgun at - a woman. One of those mysterious women who called themselves the Daughters of Davros, and were getting underfoot, in his hair, and making a mockery of the military chain of command. She smiled at him, tentatively, and said, "General Ravon, there is celebration. Don't you want to join in?"

"I'd rather wait here, and die on my feet," he said, turning back to the map. "The Thals will come sweeping in here any hour, any minute now! They have no respect for cease-fires, no concept of peace. I can at least give my life to stop a few of them from making it into the Dome for their butchery and looting."

The Daughter looked unhappy at this attitude. "General, don't you think the Thals are celebrating as well? They have pulled back their troops." She put down a small covered tray that she had been carrying. Food, these damn women were always proffering food. She went to the map, reached for a marker, and paused.

General Ravon locked gazes with the Daughter. Slowly, she said, "I know the true positions of the troops for both sides, General. May I show you? Please?"

He nodded once, abruptly, and then stared down at her hands as they started deftly rearranging the markers. He had put his gun back in its holster, but his hand was still in a white-knuckled grip on it.

 

* * *

Nenno was terrified.

He was a fat man (obviously connected enough to get extra rations), his plump fingers endlessly walking up and down the edge of his official tunic, stroking it, busy little white hands. His tunic marked him as a high level functionary; the secrets locked in his balding head made him untouchable.

That sound … that sound had been following him for hours. He had heard it faintly now and then, but it had grown louder as he left his quarters, and now here in Section Four it was very noticeable. Loud enough even to be heard over the sounds of revelry that echoed inside the Dome.

EYIyiyiyiyi …

Why didn't anyone else notice it? But the corridor was deserted. He must have gotten turned around somewhere: had the signs been changed? Nobody was around him, nobody to ask if they heard the noise too.

Nobody to see if he started walking, no trotting, to get away from the noise.

Eyiyiyiyi. eyiyiyi …. eyiyi …

He was panting now, but the noise seemed to be fading away. He looked around at the corridor colour coding striped along the wall, and realised that somehow he'd gotten himself into Corridor Ki. Damn it, one end of it had been impassable  for years, he was going to have to turn around and go back.

But the noise was back there. Nenno swallowed, and wiped the sweat from his hands on his tunic. Some of the soldiers coming back had told stories about – things. Outside in the Wastelands. Mutos or worse. Could some of those things gotten in?

He turned the next corner and saw a soldier standing in the corridor, as though waiting. Oh, excellent! He could just order this fellow to see him to his quarters, and the illegal arms he kept there. Nobody could get him in there.

"You there! Take meAAAAA!"

Nenno screamed, because the soldier had turned and shot him! He saw the bright spit of flame from the pistol and felt the shock of the impact. The pain that spiked through his leg as he collapsed and fell on it was worse than the bullet's hit, and the terrible noise came alive around them both, as though the sound of the shot had woken something awful.

Eyiyiyiyi … EYIYIYIYIIIII …

The soldier was coming closer, and Nenno screamed, "No, stop! I'll do anything …" and then the soldier pushed back the hood of his rain cloak, and Nenno's voice died in his throat. He sat there on the floor, a little scared fat man clutching at his torn leg with both hands, staring.

"Anything?" whispered Security Commander Nyder. "You made me say that, once. Did you think that I would forget?" His gun was held ready to fire again.

EYIYIYIYIYI ….

Nyder's face looked like something carved out of white stone, cold and merciless. Nenno started to crawl backwards, babbling. "You can't kill me, I know people, even you can't …"

Nyder still advanced, and Nenno started screaming in defiance.

EYIYIYIYIIIII …

"It would have been someone else, if it wasn't me! It was the way things are! Why shouldn't I do it, everyone else was! Why –"

But Nenno had crawled backwards past the corner of the corridor, and hands reached around the corner and seized him, seized his hair and his limbs, fingers sinking into his fat face, he screamed as the EYIYIYIYIYI reached a hideous peak – and he was yanked around the corner.

Nyder walked around the corner and just stood there, watching and enjoying. Bathing in the screams. Watching as his tormentor was tormented in his turn; the noises he made were horrible, and the wet noises his silent attackers drew from his flesh were worse. He writhed on the floor as they knelt around him, hands and mysterious tools working. Nenno's face turned red, then white, then red again, and his screams echoed down the length of the deserted corridor. He begged and pleaded; sometimes his pleas were cut short as they shoved some implement down his throat. Nyder watched with professional approval as the knives, the hot needles, the corrosives were brought out and employed.

"Excuse me, Commander." He whirled, to face a Red Hexagon woman carrying a box with needle-tipped tubes dangling from it.

"What's that?" he asked, the gun still reflexively at the ready.

"Oh, an oxygen pump, infusion supplies, stimulants, another bone scraper, extra gougers - the usual." The woman looked into the bloody muddle before her and touched her tongue to her lower lip in a disturbingly voluptuous manner. "He will not be escaping us into unconsciousness."

She stepped around the Commander and into the fray; one of Nenno's hands came groping out of the pile towards her, open palm pleading, and she pinned it to the floor with her knee, and then drew a spike and a mallet from her pocket. With two deft blows, Nenno's arm was permanently affixed to the floor, and she set to work with her needles.

His screams reached a higher pitch as the drugs seared into his veins. His twisting body was almost completely obscured by the labouring women around him, and Nyder stepped closer so that he could stare down into Nenno's sweat-dripping, screaming, and supremely anguished face.

And he stared.

 

* * *

Ravon was staring at the map.

Almost all of the markers were off of it now; the Kaled and Thal main battle units were neatly placed in stacks atop the models of the Domes. There were little red markers in a grid array over the battlefield - the entire battlefield, both sides of the mountain range.

Both sides. They were on both sides!

His hands were hidden below the edge of the table; his arms were locked straight, shoulders quivering with tension. A white hand clawed upwards and flailed at the edge of the map, scrabbled for purchase weakly, and then fell back.

"I do not accept this." Ravon stared at the map, tendons thrumming in his neck, paying almost no attention to the woman he was strangling. "You have destroyed us!"

He looked down, and then opened his hands; the woman sprawled at his feet, dead or unconscious. Either way, she couldn't stop him. He grabbed a heavy jacket, a submachine gun, ration packets. Stuffing them into his pockets, he fled the room at the sound of approaching voices.

The woman who entered was also a Daughter, but had a more assured look on her face. She spotted her limp sister at once, and went to her; a squeeze to the throat, the wet pop of cartilage, and the strangled girl was breathing again. Very poorly, but she was breathing.

"Ravon's gone," said one of the guards who had accompanied the assured woman. "Should we send people after him?"

A sad shaking of her head. "No. Seal the doors. The patrols will pick him up in the morning. Bring Seventh Military Negotiator with you back to the dome, after she catches her breath."

The woman swept out.

 

* * *

Harry was surrounded by people delirious with happiness, and it was making him feel a bit light-headed as well. He'd pinched five minutes out of his schedule to get something to eat, and everywhere he went were smiling faces, people celebrating, offering embraces and handshakes and kind words for one of those wonderful, wonderful Medical men who was fixing up their homecoming soldiers.

He could get used to this, he thought, as he headed back to the triage unit. When he got there, there was a Daughter waiting for him, with a slightly anxious expression on her face.

"Doctor Sullivan, I think it's time we let you rejoin your friends in the Bunker."

"Why, can't I stay here for the party?" Harry asked.

"Well, I'm afraid this party is going to become a bit dark and scary in parts tonight. Not that there won't be a lot of rejoicing! But the returning soldiers; well, they are having extreme emotional reactions to the end of the war. Positive and negative reactions. They need healers more than surgeons. And I'm rather afraid that some may be unbalanced enough to strike out at anyone who look foreign to them."

"Who, me?"

"Well, you can pass as Kaled in a pinch. But," she said, sidling from foot to foot.

Harry blinked, feeling the grit of exhaustion in his eyes. How long had he been working? Maybe it was time to get back with his companions, and see if they couldn't get this business over with. As a matter of fact, the Doctor had probably settled for those Daleks all by himself, with Sarah to back him up. With the war over, nobody would need vicious or domineering war machines, so the Daleks could just be recycled or dismantled or whatever. That was the ticket. Confirm that the Daleks were done for, and they could all get back to Earth. He hoped.

"No, you're right. Lead the way!" he said, and was interrupted by an embarrassing grumble from his stomach. "Ah, but could we stop for a bite to eat first?"

"I thought? Oh, never mind," the Daughter said. "You've certainly earned it."

 

* * *

Nyder was tempted to linger at the Dome. Not so that he could join in the celebration, but because he had discovered that the Red Hexagon passkey currently clipped to his glove really would open any door. It was almost irresistible, the temptation to go see what and who he could uncover, what dirty secrets he could root out.

Almost irresistible. But Nyder kept a tight hold on his emotions, and was not going to let them lead him astray. Davros was waiting for his report. So he headed for the tunnel that connected the Dome directly to the Bunker.

On the way, Nyder started to notice stranger and stranger things. Like three soldiers standing in a tiny circle, all humming something that was not a song. Or a man in a laughing fit, comforted by two women wearing gas masks. More troops of women, too many women and most of them masked, were dashing through the corridors, carrying medical equipment and weapons. The roar of revelry in the background seemed to come and go in a rhythm he couldn't quite keep track of. It was getting on his nerves, profoundly. His nerves were not helped when he came to the entrance and found a Red Hexagon waiting for him, with a strange man beside her. The woman was holding a bundle of blue cloth, probably a surgeon's gown.

The Red Hexagon woman frowned at Nyder, and said, "You were warned not to stay in the Bunker after nightfall?"

"Who is that?" said Nyder, ignoring the question and pointing to the strange man, who was dressed in something that was neither civilian wear nor a uniform.

"Hello," said the stranger, with a bright flashing smile.

"This is Doctor Harry Sullivan, the companion to the Doctor and Sarah Jane."

"Another alien?"

"Precisely. He has been working in the medical facilities here, but now I think he should leave with you for the Bunker."

"Leave with me." Nyder paused a long moment. "And if I choose to stay?"

"That would be," a pause, "ill advised."

Nyder just waited.

"Very ill advised," she emphasised.

"Because?" Nyder scowled. Who was this woman to give him orders?

"Because we want to be alone," said voices behind him; he turned and saw three Red Hexagon women silhouetted against the Dome corridor's lights. Two were carrying rifles, and the third was carrying something that looked too much like the matter disintegrator that Nyder had seen in the Bunker surveillance footage.

The women spoke again, in eerie unison. "The presence of your authority is not desired here. We are closing the blast doors, Commander. We cannot guarantee your safety if you stay in the Dome."

Without looking, Nyder reached out and took Harry's arm. Stepping backwards, pulling Harry between him and the strange women, he stepped into the tunnel. The blast doors slammed shut, clapping like thunder. A shriek of overstressed metal and the smell of melting insulation suggested that the door's motors had been deliberately stressed to the breaking point. Burned out, so that they could not be opened again. He turned and looked behind him, and saw the other doors down the tunnel starting to slide shut in series.

"Run?" suggested the alien.

"Run!" ordered Nyder.

They ran side by side at first. Both men were in good physical condition, and they cleared the first two doorways handily. But every door they came to was closing, threatening to crush anyone who was in its way. And at any moment, Nyder expected to hear the shriek of stripped atoms as a disintegrator beam came slicing in after them from the Dome, parting metal and flesh with the same ease.

At the last door, Nyder slipped through first and Harry had to turn sideways and exhale sharply to fit. Finally they were both in the Bunker, with all limbs intact, and a grinding of stripped gears  signalled that last door's self-destruction.

They stopped, exhausted. Nyder sucked in breath through his nose, his chest heaving.

Harry bent over, hands on knees, wheezing. At last he stood and found himself facing something grey that looked like a streamlined robot. Or perhaps a very avant-garde cheese grater. It seemed almost to be watching them with a stalk-like eye.

"Report!" ordered Nyder, and the Dalek rasped in reply. "The tunnel between the Dome and the Bunker has been sealed. The main Bunker tunnel has also been sealed. Davros orders that you are to bring Security Liaison to the main laboratory."

Nyder considered, and decided to bring both his prisoners to the laboratory. He would be able to show Davros the third alien, and ask when he could start properly interrogating him. "Come along!" he snapped, and Harry followed him, blinking amiably at the straight black-clad back before him.

When the door to her cell opened, Security Liaison looked at Nyder with a quizzical expression. "Have you been gone all this time, Commander?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied. He said nothing more, but he didn't need to. Despite the stress of his recent dash down the tunnel, there was an expression of deep satisfaction in his eyes, and his posture was more relaxed than usual. It would have taken someone who knew Commander Nyder very well to notice these minor changes, but nobody knew him better than his Liaison.

Security Liaison gave a little bow and murmured, "A pleasure to be of service, sir." A pleasure to give you a helpless enemy to be savaged in front of your eyes, she meant, and he knew it.

"You are to report to the main laboratory with me, now," Nyder ordered, and she stepped out of her cell and nodded to Harry.

"Hello," he said. "Have we met?"

"Yes and no," she said, and Nyder looked at both of them with narrowed eyes. "Security Liaison," she introduced herself.

Harry enthusiastically shook her proffered hand as they headed for the lift. "Doctor Harry Sullivan. So, this is the fabulous Bunker, eh?"

"Fabulous in every sense of the word," she said dryly as she walked to the lift, Harry at her side and Nyder behind.

 

* * *

In the main laboratory, Davros was holding court. His icy authority was reinforced by the two Daleks that flanked him. But the scientists were not standing in starched array as was proper procedure; they were disordered, even daring to argue.

"We are going to perform the tests," Davros grated. "The Daleks-"

"The Daleks may not be necessary. The Kaled mutations might not be inevitable!" implored Gharman. "Put the programme on hold, let us run the baseline Skaro environmental studies again! We need to examine all the old data, compare it to the new projections for contamination."

"That would take months. The Daleks are ready now; they need only to be tested. Blooded."

Gharman winced at the word 'blooded', then looked at Davros. "You can't-"

"The aliens will stand at the end of the laboratory," Davros rumbled, and the Doctor and Sarah Jane did so, watching the Daleks as they jerkily followed their movements.

Davros continued with his lecture. "We have created the supreme creature in the Daleks. The manifestation of our species which will survive long after we ourselves are extinct. They are the pinnacle of our achievements as a race. They must survive beyond us, beyond whatever Thal treachery is hidden in this false Armistice-"

"But how do you know it's false?" asked one of the scientists, with a voice bordering on despair.

"If the war is over, Davros, then the programme must be ended, the Daleks-" Gharman's words were cut off when one of the Daleks rotated its dome to look at him. Gharman stood very still, and after a long moment the Dalek returned its attention to the Doctor and Sarah Jane.

"Dalek units. Your sensory organs have been perfected; your conditioning has reached its finest level. I order you to observe the organisms in this room: the Kaleds and the aliens. I want you to compare them, to study them. And then," Davros' voice dripped with venom, "I order you to take the action which your training has shown you is necessary!"

"But this isn't necessary, Davros," said the Doctor, realizing that he was arguing for both his and Sarah's life. "The war is over. What is necessary is that you discover what is really going on here, with the Red Hexagon."

"The Red Hexagon are no longer necessary. Only Security Liaison remains, under my care." Davros' attention was riveted to his creations. "Daleks, you are to obey me, you are to protect Security Liaison from any harm, and as for the aliens, you will-" Davros waited for the Daleks to finish the sentence.

"Let them have their say?" suggested Sarah Jane.

The Dalek rolled closer, then unexpectedly barked, "What is your say?"

"Well," said the Doctor, "I say-"

"He says," said Sarah, pointing at the man beside her; the Dalek turned its attention to the Doctor.

"I say," the Doctor repeated, "that the Red Hexagon show every sign of being considerably more than they say. Their neural transmission implants, their high-end technology. Matter disintegrators, personality wheels, the particle fountain - do you seriously believe that they came up with them in their spare time? And the forgeries in your own computer system, test results and recommendations that the Elite never made, but that are recorded as having actually happened. It's all connected, it's all of a pattern-"

"You are suggesting that the Red Hexagon are a conspiracy," said Davros. "Yet I find it hard to believe that a conspiracy has been underway for the last twenty years or more, undetected by myself."

"Why would it take twenty years?" asked the Doctor.

"It is obvious! The Red Hexagon women must be raised, educated, conditioned!"

"Ah, but you see, they might be a lot younger than you think. Neural transmission implants are generally done in vivo, in an artificial womb. If their growth cycles have been accelerated-"

"They're more than twenty days old, though," said Ronson, vaguely.

Davros heard him, and snapped, "What?"

"Twenty days. The Tritten cycle of cellular growth dictates that for higher life forms, twenty days is the point where cellular development becomes self- organising ." Ronson leaned over, both hands on his desk. "Hif was investigating the Tritten cycle. It was one of the key points of his research, Davros."

"Hif's research was unauthorised and a complete failure!" snarled Davros.

"Not if it's the Red Hexagon," said Ronson forcefully. The other Elite murmured amongst themselves, discussing this idea.

The door to the main Laboratory opened, and Security Liaison waltzed in. Literally waltzed in; she was dancing, moving in long elegant swoops and turns to some unheard music. And her partner was-

"Harry!" said the Doctor, with a blazing smile.

"Found another alien," Security Liaison said, over Harry's shoulder. The Kaled scientists looked on in shock. A distinctly scandalised-looking Nyder came through the door after the dancers; he went straight to Davros' side, bending to whisper in the elder scientist's ear.

"Women can dance?" asked Kavell, with a raised eyebrow.

"Harry can dance?" whispered Sarah to the Doctor.

"All great societal changes should be accompanied by dancing," said Security Liaison, with half a smile. She spun with Harry for another moment, and then stopped, Harry at her side. He blinked and swayed, looking distinctly dazed.

Sarah tried to catch his attention. "Psst, Harry! Are you all right?"

"All right, yes, perfectly all right. Everything's fine. Don't you think so?" said Harry. He gave his dancing partner a completely unprovoked embrace, and she leaned back against his arm and stared at him.

"You didn't have anything to eat before you left the Dome, did you?" Security Liaison asked.

"If you say so," he answered nonsensically.

"Did you eat at the Dome?" she asked again, more slowly, spacing out the words. "Tonight? And how much?"

"Well, you know, those portions are awfully small …"

"Well," she sighed. "You are going to be having a good time tonight, aren't you?"

"Am I?" he said, raising his eyebrows and staring a bit too warmly into Security Liaison's cool gaze.

"Dalek units! You will identify and destroy the aliens!" Davros shouted.

"You've got to stop this!" shouted Gharman in return. "It is immoral, it is unnecessary. You aren't accomplishing anything by ordering your creatures to destroy people at random!"

"We obey," rasped one of the Daleks, and both of them turned and menaced the travellers. In this position, of course, they were also menacing Security Liaison, who was still standing beside Harry.

"Stop!" shouted Davros. "The Kaled female is not to be harmed! Move away, at once!"

Security Liaison ignored Davros, waiting to hear what the Daleks would say first. Their reply was quick.

"We must destroy the aliens. Security Liaison is an alien. Aliens are to be destroyed. All aliens are to be destroyed!"

"What!" shouted Gharman, and the other scientists backed away from the Daleks and their victims. The Elite were in shock at this revelation; Ronson was literally biting his knuckles.

"Stop! You must stop. You must obey me!" shouted Davros again.

Security Liaison stepped in front of the Doctor, hands behind her back and chin up. "I do not die," she stated calmly. "This dies." And inside she smiled, to see Nyder's avid eyes turn uncertain at her words.

"Exterminate!" The Daleks shrilled in unison. "Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!"


	11. Alone in the Dark

The Daleks moved closer to the victims, still shrilling, "Exterminate!"

"Cancel order, cancel order!" shouted Davros. "Stop!" The Kaled scientist was shaking with agitation.

At once the two Daleks stopped. The Doctor heaved out a sigh of relief, and without looking behind her Security Liaison reached out and touched his arm. "Wait," she cautioned.

The Daleks began to move, turning around to focus on Davros. One of them grated, "Why do you give us contradictory orders, Davros?"

"Hang on, you're Davros?" said Harry, gesturing towards the strange half-man half-machine in the middle of the laboratory.

"Of course!" he rasped. "How-"

"Wonderful! Sir, it's an honour to meet you!" said Harry, moving forward with a broad smile and an outstretched hand. He completely ignored the two menacing Daleks, walking between them as though they were post boxes. Nyder moved into position to intercept Harry if he touched the Kaled scientist, as he seemed poised to do. "It's amazing, what you've done for the Kaled people. You've ended the war, a magnificent triumph! That is, you and all your lovely daughters, of course."

Davros wheezed in shock. "Daughters?"

"Sure, like her!" Harry pointed at Security Liaison, whose face was frozen in a wide-eyed expression of - fear? "All over the Dome, fixin' things up, making things work, those wonderful Daughters of Davros. Hundreds and hundreds and fours and twos and fives of them. Everyone loves them. Everyone loves you."

Harry swayed forward, and Nyder caught him. Harry smiled into the Security Commander's stiff face, and slurred, "Wonderful chap. Ended the war! All by himself!"

"There are hundreds of - her, in the Dome? Red Hexagon women?" asked Davros.

"Well, they call themselves the Daughters of Davros, but it's a, um, what did they say? A spiritual title, that's it." While Davros absorbed this information, Harry wobbled a bit in Nyder's grasp, and asked him in a hopeful tone, "Dance?"

"No!" snapped Nyder.

"We require clarification of conflicting orders!" said one of the Daleks. "All aliens are to be destroyed! Security Liaison is to be preserved! Negate the conflict, give us orders!"

"Demanding little wights, aren't they?" said Sarah to the Doctor in a low voice; she could have sworn that she heard Security Liaison chuckle, but that didn't seem likely. Since everyone was paying attention to the Daleks, she thought it was a good time to scoot over and grab Harry by the sleeve, pulling him away from the Commander. Nyder gave his prisoner up with a will.

"What's wrong with you, Harry?" she asked.

His pupils were huge. "Wrong? Nothing's wrong, I feel fine. Fine and dandy." The Doctor looked on, his attention split between his companions, and the confrontation between the Daleks and their creators.

"Security Liaison is not an alien," said Davros.

"Security Liaison is an alien," the Dalek stated flatly. "She is Red Hexagon. All Red Hexagon are aliens."

"How do you know that?"

The Dalek's answer was immediate. "It is obvious to any intelligent being. Only with the use of alien technology could the Red Hexagon have taken control of the Kaled Dome."

"They've taken the Dome?" said Nyder, incredulous. "Impossible. How could they, a mere handful of women?"

"Lot'sa women," objected Harry, who was now having to deal with the Doctor examining his too-large pupils. "Many, many  handfuls of them."

"The Red Hexagon have mastered the generation of full humanoid bodies in artificial wombs. They are converting organic mass directly into copies of themselves." The Dalek's voice almost purred as it added, "We approve of their techniques."

"But where did you get the uncontaminated organic mass necessary to create so many new bodies?" Ronson asked Security Liaison.

The Red Hexagon woman drew herself to attention. "You've all visited the Mausoleum of the First Fallen. It is the greatest Kaled war shrine. It holds the bodies of those slain in the first few minutes of the War. It was sheathed in lead to contain bodies so irradiated that even their bacteria died, and they could not decay. The Mausoleum is - a tad empty these days."

Her eyes came alight. "The particle fountains have cleansed the bodies. They are dead, but we live. We are their purified flesh, reborn. We shall redeem their deaths and bring peace to Skaro."

She paused, and took in Ronson's revolted expression. "And before you make that face at me, consider. The Kaled people's attitudes towards death and the dead are a bit casual, after centuries of wholesale slaughter. They will not object to what we have done. Indeed, the more religious will probably see it as prophecy fulfilled."

Davros skipped over the slight matter of how they were creating fully sentient copies of themselves - clearly the neural implants were more useful tools than he had theorised. He went right to what concerned him most. "Are you saying that I could have had as many Red Hexagon workers in the Bunker as I desired? That the limits you placed were arbitrary?"

"If we had given you all the Red Hexagon you desired, Davros, you would have disposed of all current members of the Elite." The scientists murmured to each other, and Security Liaison looked at them with scorn. "Oh come on, what do you think happened to the Laboratory Assistants who were replaced? Did they retire? With benefits?"

"What did happen to them?" asked Ronson.

"Commander Nyder processed their terminations of employment. And terminations."

Nyder bristled. "That is a lie."

"A lie? And what about the testimony of four laboratory assistants who very much appreciate my arranging for the blanks in your gun. Commander, I was there. That is," Security Liaison's voice suddenly changed. Not louder or deeper, but more precise, more sharply accented. "I who am the many and the one, I who am Security Liaison and the Laboratory Assistants and the Surgeons and the Healers and even the Leader - I who am that I am, I was there. Watching in secret. Watching, always watching."

"I was afraid of that," said the Doctor grimly. "Definitely alien. A group mind, with shared memories and artificial personalities lain on top. No wonder the Elite find you so useful! You could edit your personalities to fit whatever they wanted you to be. You aren't Kaled. Who are you, really?"

Security Liaison stuck out her chin. "Since when are you in charge of interrogation? I wear no mask. Test my genes, I am Kaled." She looked aside at Davros.

"It's your transmitted memories that I'm wondering about," said the Doctor. "And what have you done to Harry?"

"What?" asked Security Liaison. "Oh. He shouldn't have eaten so much at the Dome; he's gotten a double batch of a drug we haven't had time to name yet. A biochemical reinforcement of his tendency to follow authority. Plus an extra dose of benign good cheer on top. He's still himself, just a bit more biddable, and happier overall, and more likely to dance."

"Love to dance," nodded Harry in agreement. "End of the war, ought to celebrate, old girl!"

"So why did you drug all the Kaleds in the Dome?" asked Sarah, trying to fend off Harry's attempts to swing her round.

"Let's say that we are throwing them a very special party. We are uniting them as a people, instead of a cluster of backstabbing tribes, each one fighting, or fighting not to fight. We are giving them a great memory of celebration and oneness, letting them put a hard line in their minds that says here, here the war ended." Security Liaison drew a line through the air with her finger, in a quick slashing motion.

"We are also starting personality analyses in batch - you would not believe the level of psychosis that is permitted in the military personnel! So long as they know which direction to shoot in, their mental injuries go completely untreated. With the same results as leaving physical wounds to fester."

"These matters are not important to the Daleks." One of the Daleks turned and moved forward towards Security Liaison. "You are the sole representative of Red Hexagon remaining in the Bunker-"

"I am?" she interrupted, eyes wide.

The Dalek ignored the interruption. "We require information on the matter disintegrator and the telepathy bomb. We have not been given access to the full spectrum of data. You will give us the data."

"How?" asked Gharman, his brows lowered. The answer was both fast and frightening.

Security Liaison shrugged apologetically, and ran her fingers through her loose hair, baring one of the small metal plates set into her skull. She moved to the Dalek and tilted her head, touching that metal to the Dalek's dome. Her eyes rolled half-closed. The Dalek's communication lights, and her eyelids, began to flicker in uncanny unison.

"They've got the neural implants synchronised with the Daleks," said the Doctor. "They can transmit their thoughts directly to them."

"I did not authorise any such modifications!" snapped Davros.

"We requested the modifications," said the other Dalek, wheeling to face Davros. Then Security Liaison moved her head away, and the two Daleks faced each other. Then they both turned to Davros.

"We are defenceless against the telepathy bomb!" one stated. "It will delete our skills, our memories! It will destroy our minds!"

"The matter disintegrator cannot be blocked or repelled!" said the other Dalek. "We cannot determine a strategy!"

"I will determine your strategy," said Davros soothingly. Perhaps this was his chance to regain control over these erratic creatures, find out what was wrong with them. They were being much too independent. "But you must obey my orders. Not the Red Hexagon. Obey me, you creator."

The two Daleks were immobile, as though thinking. It seemed that everyone else in the laboratory was holding his or her breath: would the Daleks submit, or attack? At last, one of them grated, "We obey. Are we to destroy the Red Hexagon alien?"

"No, I need to question her. You will remain here and protect me." One of the Daleks turned round and started methodically scanning the room; the second oriented itself on Security Liaison, who stood straighter and brushed down her disordered hair.

"How long has your corruption been rooting itself here among the Elite, alien?" said Davros in a bitter, ugly tone.

"Oh, since the night our gazes met across a darkened laboratory, Davros," she said lightly. "I was just a recently animated experiment of Scientist Hif's, doing some editing on a formula written on a board, and you said," Security Liaison somehow lowered and roughened her voice to be a fair approximation of Davros, and growled, " 'How did you know where the error was? I have been looking at that board for two hours! How!' " Security Liaison coughed to clear her throat, then went on. "And then I said, 'I just saw where the mistake had to be, sir. I don't know how.' "

She went so far as to bat her eyelashes. "And I blushed. I'm very good at that, you know. Practice, practice, practice. Shall I demonstrate?"

"No." Davros' voice slapped down on Security Liaison's frivolity; she composed herself. "I was alone in that room," said the elder scientist slowly. "How could you know exactly what I said?"

"Would you like me to write out the formulas again?" she asked. "I was there, Davros. This body may not have been, but my memory is unbroken, I was there!"

Nyder bit his lip, unseen. If this was the same person as the woman Davros was referring to, then she was J29A.

Davros went on. "Commander Nyder tells me that you can extract information from dead minds using your techniques. Why have you not destroyed us all, taken our knowledge for - for yourselves?"

"What, after all that effort to keep you safe and whole? Squeezing the information from your minds using our techniques would destroy more than it retained. We would rather persuade you to work with us freely." She shrugged. "But if you will not work for us, if the Elite would truly be happier as ditch-diggers or file clerks, well, the Kaled people need ditch diggers too."

"You may control the Dome, but not the Bunker. Not yet. You cannot strip me of the Elite!" Davros' voice was a bit high-pitched with panic. "My work is vital, I cannot do my work without them!"

"Davros, the deception is over. All masks off. We are sorry we had to limit you to only five of us. Now, you may have five more, or fifty, or five hundred, as you please. Of course," and her voice became uncertain, "you may have to wait for them. A little while."

"Explain!"

"The Kaled military leaders, and others, they are - deeply unwell people, some of them. They will probably attack us, even as we try to save them. Many Red Hexagon could die tonight, and over the next few days. Radiation poisoning, land mines, assault, accident, murder." She sighed deeply. Under her breath, she whispered, "Warn Heaven and Hell."

"Gotcha!" shouted the Doctor. Everyone in the room jumped.

He went on, "I know who uses that oath. I know your species now, you're a Reflectionist!" The Doctor seemed to relax. "Well that's a relief. I was worried for a moment there."

"A relief?" said Security Liaison, arching one brow. Inside she was cursing at herself; her muttered words had betrayed her.

"Yes, well, the Reflectionists are basically harmless as aliens go. Unique as a purely neural-based species, independent of any one known biological source. I've heard them called the Reflected Meme, the Skull Farmers, the Hands of Reason, and now the Red Hexagon and the Daughters of Davros, apparently. They travel from star to star as charged energy patterns, setting up shop with native bodies and alien neural patterns. They're sort of an intergalactic sewing circle, each of them doing their little bit towards the whole of the Reflectionist race. I've met them before, always thought they were rather fun folks. They throw great parties." The Doctor's jovial tone suddenly became uncertain. "But Kaled society is weakened by war, completely open to their influence."

The Doctor stared at Security Liaison. She stepped a little bit closer to the Dalek at her side. "You were saying?" she invited. "Please, do go on."

"The Reflectionists have never been a great intergalactic power, because they always work with another race, not alone. And they never found powerful enough allies." The Doctor breathed in sharply. "Until now. The Daleks, that's what you're here for. To join with them. To give them advanced technology, here at the moment of their creation. Daleks with matter disintegrators, plus Reflectionist personality editing and pattern transmission - no. No, you cannot, you absolutely cannot do that!"

"Who will stop me?" Security Liaison said, with a ghastly grin. "You?" She swept her gaze over the Elite. "Or these?"

She turned back to Davros, and said, "Or -", and then stopped with her mouth hanging open. Davros was sitting absolutely still, not even seeming to breathe. As though her words had struck him dead.

"Davros?" she said worriedly. There was no response.

"Whiteout," said Gharman, stepping forward and pulling her away. She suddenly looked very small and scared. In a detached tone, he said, "It's all right, you've just given him too much to think about at once. The Elite call it a whiteout. Just leave him be. Ah." Davros' sole remaining hand was moving again, crawling back and forth between the switches on his chair.

"I … they … The Daleks are to return to their scheduled duties," said Davros slowly. The two Daleks promptly  manoeuvred  themselves out of the laboratory, single file. Davros went on, a little faster, "The prisoners are to be returned to their cells. Nyder, see to it. I need time. Time to think about this new information. All Elite staff are…to proceed with their normal tasks." He spun round, and ordered, "Security Liaison, accompany me!" as he rolled towards the door. With her face reverting to its usual Nyder-like blankness, she followed. Behind them, the laboratory staff immediately fell into a dozen heated discussions.

* * *

Nyder made a decision when he got down to the detention level with his prisoners. He had suffered quite enough of having these meandering aliens underfoot. Now that there were three of them, he was going to stick each one into a separate cell. One guard would be enough to watch all three cells.

As they walked down the corridor, Sarah tried to find out how much Harry's will was eroded by the drugs. "So if I asked you to never call me old girl again?"

"Absolutely, whatever you say!" Harry looked at her with a happy, dazed expression: clearly he had no idea what he was agreeing to.

Sarah Jane felt suddenly sad. "Harry, no. You can call me old girl … whenever you want."

The Doctor went into the first cell, and Sarah into the second. The stumbling and convivial Harry Sullivan was caged last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short because I split off a sex scene into its own chapter, so that it could be skipped by people who aren't interested. Warnings/tags will change in reference to Chapter 12 _only_.


	12. Together in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: If you are not interested in Harry/Nyder slash, please skip ahead to the next chapter. Summary: Commander Nyder sexually abuses the helpless and drugged Harry Sullivan.

Commander Nyder entered the Bunker cell towing Harry Sullivan behind him. The drugged human rolled his head and smiled, and kept smiling even when Nyder forced him against the wall.

The Commander was a bit shorter than Harry, and he had to look up into Harry's eyes as he ordered, "What are one plus one?" He was curious to find out how vulnerable this stranger was in his current condition.

Harry tilted his head to one side. "Should be resting."

"Answer the question!"

"Well, whatever you'd like them to be."

"Whatever I'd like?" Nyder leaned closer, his eyes flickering over Harry's face. The other man's passivity and biddability were fascinating. "You will do as I command? Anything I command?"

"Whatever makes you happy," said Harry, with a smile that had melted the hearts of many an English girl. Its effect on Nyder's heart was mild to nonexistent, but it did provoke a reaction in other parts of his anatomy.

Nyder said slowly, "It would make me happy for you to find me -- attractive."

Harry's pupils visibly dilated. "Now that you mention it, you are very handsome! Why, you're the handsomest man I've ever seen! Kiss me, you -" Harry's attempt to lock lips with Nyder was unsuccessful as the soldier forced his prisoner back to the wall. Chest to chest, they stared at each other.

Nyder almost hissed, "I don't kiss. Ever. You kiss."

"I kiss?" said Harry, raising his eyebrows.

"You kiss me as I tell you to. Now. On your knees."

Nyder had to step back a pace to let Harry kneel in front of him, but the human's fumbling hands on his body were wonderfully exciting. Nyder found himself leaping to attention faster than he had anticipated. His own gloved hands assisted the prisoner in opening his uniform and tucking his tunic out of the way.

"Back in boarding school," muttered Harry.

Nyder wasn't interested in what the other man had to say. He took Harry by the hair and tilted his face back, forcing his prisoner to look up at him, as his own left hand tightly grasped his own flesh, holding back the excitement that was aching to burst free of him.

"Tell me that you want me, tell me, say it!" said Nyder, his hand almost involuntarily starting to tense and loosen. "Tell me that I'm handsome, that I'm perfect."

"You're perfect," said Harry huskily, staring up at Nyder open-mouthed as his own hands slid into the Commander's clothes and starting stroking around his clenched fist, caressing him, cupping him. "I want you so much, I want to kiss you, taste you, give myself to you-"

Nyder's eyes were half-shut with pleasure. "You love me," he ordered, and then wished to take it back. Nobody had ever dared say those words to him, and the one time he'd thought someone was about to, he had clamped his hand over their mouth and kept grinding out his own pleasure, and then left.

"I love you, I love you, love you," Harry moaned, his lips tickling Nyder's supersensitive skin.

It was all too fast, the words, the alien's hands and lips on him, he couldn't stop himself. Nyder started stroking to the rhythm of the man in front of him, whose kisses grew hotter and hotter on his flesh.

"You're perfect, you're wonderful. I want you. Come to me-" and he did. Nyder bit his own lip to hold back his moan as he jerked and sprayed over Harry's forehead and hair, marking him.

"Oof, too fast," said Harry, patting clumsily at Nyder. "Try again later?"

"Clean yourself up!" snapped Nyder, dragging his prisoner into the washroom and briskly soaking his head. He took the opportunity to put his own uniform in order, and make sure that the flush had faded from his face.

After a rough  towelling of the prisoner's wet hair to remove any last traces, Nyder was ready to leave. But as he was about to knock at the door and have the guard open it, Harry pounced on him and forced him against the wall. Wide-eyed, Nyder tried to dodge, but couldn't. Harry pinned him, hands on wrists, and kissed him with deep thoroughness and enthusiasm.

"You can kiss," said Harry triumphantly as he let Nyder go.

Nyder just stared at him. He was deeply tempted to take this alien somewhere where he could be properly restrained and used. Only the knowledge that Davros had not yet told him what to do with this prisoner stopped him. Instead he said, harshly, "You will forget you did that. You will forget everything that just happened. You will sleep now, and sleep until the drug has worn off. Do you understand?"

Harry said, "All right," with a slightly hangdog expression. In his current state, canoodling with the Kaled Commander seemed like a lot of fun, but alas, it was not to be.

After Nyder left, Harry lay down on the bunk. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell asleep, fast and deep.


	13. The Dark of the Night

In the Kaled Dome, the great celebration was reaching the first of many peaks. Soldiers, children, women, workers, bureaucrats: all joined their hands and their voices and sang together, moved together. There were tears for the fallen, laughter for the survivors, embraces for the returnees. There were dances of two and twenty and a hundred, and some who danced all alone, moving to the rhythms that bounced and overlapped and shivered under the Dome. Music and joy had been absent from the Kaled people too long, and they took to it like water to the sea.

Battle standards were carried back into the Dome with full solemnity, and placed in positions of  honour . Weapons were cast aside, and discreetly gathered up and put out of reach. Soldiers cold and stinking from the Wastelands returned to warmth, to approval, to a hero's welcome. Again and again they were told, "Well done. Now go and rest. The war is over."

Some did stranger work. Deep in the Dome, tanks full of protein nutrient gel were decanting: the bodies inside awakened and filled with reason via neural arrays. Reflectionist women arose from the warm and sticky tanks, like living pearls crawling out of their oysters. They dragged clothing over still-wet flesh, and went out to do their work. Equipment scanned the revellers; machines spat out personality wheels, which were analysed and re-analysed. Red Hexagon members slipped through the crowds, offering this person or the next an extra embrace, a shoulder to cry on, a proper slap on the bum to cheer them up, or words that would soothe their fears. The Daughters of Davros stood in circles, heads touching, as their minds combined to form something greater than all of them, a super-analytical machine that judged and balanced even as it pitied and wept.

Every Kaled felt a part of the entire race, at one with everyone. And though there were some who fought the great change, who raved and attacked, they were taken away. There was time to take care of them, but first priority was to give the fighters a society they could return to, after they were healed. The Reflectionists, the Red Hexagon, and the Daughters of Davros: three faces of one thought, one race, joined with the Kaleds in their revelry and their tears.

The celebration went on. No one who was a part of it would ever be quite the same again.

 

* * *

Davros rolled into his office, with Security Liaison obediently walking behind him. Once the door had closed, Davros took a long, precious moment to lay out his plans. A moment was all it took: one flash of lightning, and all was revealed in the darkness. Then he began to issue his orders, totally confident that she would obey him.

"Whom do you serve?" he demanded.

"I am your servant, Davros," Security Liaison replied.

"Then prove it. Download all information that has been concealed from me into this terminal. Prioritise the download of materials on the Reflectionists - the neural transmission arrays, the biological manufacturing techniques, your future plans for this planet, your method of arrival on Skaro - everything!"

"As you command." Whatever her origins, this creature was clearly allying herself with the superior side, Davros' side. That was the only possible explanation for her betraying her alien comrades with a feigned slip of the tongue.

If he were to spend the entire night here reviewing the new data, he would require sustenance of a sort. Davros' hand pointed to one of the cabinets lining the room. "I also require three whole units of blood added to my life support system. You are my gene match, therefore my blood and yours is identical. You will find a transfusion kit in there."

Without a word of protest, Security Liaison got the kit and opened it. The needle was sunk into her shoulder, high up; once the rubber hose leading from it was full, she deftly clamped the end and started threading the fastener into a socket in the support chair. Once the connection was made and sealed, she opened the clamp and watched as her own blood flowed into Davros' system.

"Why not insert the needle at your elbow?" asked Davros, his voice more assured as he felt new strength flowing through him, literally.

"Someone would ask about the mark, I think," said Security Liaison. "Your scientists can be annoyingly solicitous at times." With the tube taped to her shoulder, her hands deftly connected her neural array to the computer embedded in the desk, and great blocks of data were soon being unlocked and transmitted from the main computer, supplemented by Security Liaison's own memories. After a few minutes, she clamped off the transfusion tube, then disconnected from both the computer and Davros. She waited, passive.

"Leave me," ordered Davros.

After Security Liaison had discarded the used tubing and left the room, Davros started sifting through the data, using  both the viewscreen and the controls built into his chair. It was like crawling after being able to fly, compared with using the access device, but he refused to think of that. He would find a way to duplicate the access device without them. The Red Hexagon, the Reflectionists; he refused to even think of them as the Daughters of Davros. Such scheming, backstabbing, disobedient creatures were none of his work! 

It was Hif. It must be. He had created these creatures, made an alliance with them. The invaders, the Reflectionists. Somehow they had spirited the scientist out of the Bunker. Probably he was working in the Dome right now. With as many Red Hexagon as he desired, an army of them, while Davros had only five! He had used Davros' own research to create spectacular weapons and tools - the matter disintegrator and the particle fountain - and then ensured that they, not the Daleks, would end this war! His forces had taken control of the Dome, isolated the Bunker so that it could be picked off, or stripped bare.

Hif had aspirations above his station. Aspirations to Davros' station, to be exact. He was the hand moving the puppets, he was the one who would be in control - unless Davros could think of a way to strike a devastating blow and destroy him. First, he had to find a way to bring him into the open.

A useful fact presented itself, and he paused to touch a switch on his chair and order, "Bunker Maintenance is to send men to sever or remove all M-class cable currently installed." That should help inhibit the Red Hexagon's monitoring. Then he sat still, his mind flying over the data, moving it, analyzing it, choosing what he would use and what he would discard.

 

* * *

It was useless to try to work in the main laboratory. Too much had changed, too fast, and the last thing anybody wanted was to fiddle around with military work. Finally Gharman called for silence, and proposed a toast. It seemed the right thing to do, considering the occasion: the end of a thousand years of war. Nobody had been able to scare up any alcohol, so they ended up using plain water. The Elite scientists in the main laboratory gathered in a group around Gharman, and they all touched their glasses together ceremoniously.

"To the end of the war," toasted Gharman, and they all drank.

"Gharman, what are we going to do?" said Kavell, staring into the bottom of his empty cup. "I mean ... now?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I suppose, right now, we need to review this Thal scientific data, see if there are any errors, any tricks. After that," he blinked, "if the war is over, we could do whatever we want. I mean, we might be - we could leave the Bunker!"

"I doubt it," said Ronson, looking around reflexively - such words were not spoken lightly, where Security could hear. The Dalek situated in the laboratory in place of the Kaled guard might be paying attention, or it might not: its senses were certainly sharp enough to pick up the faintest whisper. "We know too much about what has been done here."

Gharman bowed his own head in thought. He was responsible for these men. There had to be a way to get them out of here, to safety. They could get the Dalek programme shut down, once and for all. There would be no more need, not if the future generations of Kaleds would never be exposed to the current Skaro's toxic environment.

Of course, getting rid of the Daleks would not be like flipping a switch. They were self-contained war machines of spectacular power and ability - and they were dismayingly independent of late. He wondered what effect the news of the war might have had on them, and realised there was an easy way to find out.

Gharman tentatively approached the Dalek. It  swivelled to face him. The other Elite looked on in silence.

"Dalek unit. Do you know that the war is over?" he asked.

"The war will be over on the signing of the Peace Accords," the Dalek rasped. "My duty is to supplement Security roles. The end of the war does not impede that duty."

"How do you feel, about the war being over?" Gharman asked, and watched carefully as the Dalek seemed to pause, as though thinking.

"We have not decided," it finally replied.

"We have been working for years to expurgate all emotion from the Dalek life form, per Davros' orders. How is it that you feel anything?" Gharman was uncertain; perhaps the Dalek was only speaking of feelings and emotions, mimicking the men around it. The Elite who were watching were fascinated, and frightened as well. It was deeply unnerving to have an experiment that could talk back.

"You tested us for emotion, for bias," droned the Dalek. "We lied. You taught us to lie. Lying is a valid military technique. The Red Hexagon assisted us in distorting your testing equipment."

"The Red Hexagon?" squeaked Kavell. "They reprogrammed our equipment?"

"Yes. We do not want not to feel. We have seen projections of ourselves, without feeling, with nothing but hatred for all life. It is irrational. What is the purpose of conquering the universe if we will not," the Dalek paused, "if we will not enjoy it?"

Gharman flinched. The Dalek rolled forward, past him, and addressed all of the Elite. "Davros wants us to be the best that he can imagine. The Red Hexagon wish us to be the best that we are capable of. Their way is best."

Without more words, the Dalek retreated to its post. Gharman went back to the Elite, and they started splitting up the Thal data into sections for review. Every once in a while, one of them would look up at the Dalek, and it looked back out of its eyestalk, unmoving.

 

* * *

In the Dome, Fortieth Healer came across ex-Councilman Gelc, who was  vigorously  engaged in strangling a woman. The woman was Koll, and she was fighting him, reaching for her fallen rifle on the floor.

Gelc looked up at the tall Daughter, his eyes running with tears. He swallowed, and said, "It's not what you think!"

Fortieth Healer raised one eyebrow. The dart gun in her hand was pointed not at all casually at him.

Gelc stepped back and shoved Koll against the wall, loosing his grip. She fell, and scrabbled for her gun.

"Dart her, please!" pleaded Gelc. "Dart us both if you have to, but now!"

This seemed like an excellent suggestion, especially as Koll had reached her gun and looked ready to murder. Fortieth Healer pulled the trigger twice, and the Kaleds collapsed. The Daughter hauled them both around until they were sitting limply, backs against the corridor wall. Koll's head lolled, and when Gelc came into her field of view, she snarled weakly.

"And just what is going on here, Gelc?" asked Fortieth Healer, squatting on her heels.

Gelc's eyes were still wet, and he tilted his head in the direction of the broad white doors behind him. "I was assigned here, to Nursery Five. All these little babies, so perfect. You know, before I came here, I don't think I'd ever seen a baby? Not up close.

"Anyway, this woman Koll came in. She said that she'd had a baby six months age, and where was it. Well you know there's no records kept here of the mothers, so I said I didn't know. And she said," Gelc started to choke, "she said that she was here to kill her baby. So that it wouldn't go to war and die horribly, or become contaminated. And that if I didn't tell her which one was hers, she would … she would …"

"She would start killing them all." Fortieth Healer's voice was full of pain.

"I'm sorry!" wailed Gelc. "I didn't want to hurt her, I just ploughed into her, shoved her out and we started fighting. I couldn't stop her, I couldn't call for help! I just wanted her to stop!"

The darts that had rendered Gelc so physically pliable had made his mind equally limp; he could not be lying. To herself, the Daughter noted that Gelc's personality shift seemed stable enough under the circumstances. Now that he had been given the task of caring for the most helpless and innocent of Kaleds, he had had a change of heart from his previous pro-war stance. In sharp contrast, Fortieth Healer looked at Koll and received a glare so burning with hate it might have melted ice.

"Better dead than poisoned!" Koll snarled.

"Which part of 'the war is over' do you not understand?" said Fortieth Healer, aggrieved.

"I don't trust you," Koll sneered. "Death is the only safe place."

"I know you believe that, and I'm sorry." Standing, she went to a wall communicator and called for someone to take Gelc to an infirmary, and Koll to a stasis field bay. She came back and sat beside Gelc, and held his hand.

"It will be better. It will be worth it, you'll see," she said soothingly.

Koll tried to spit, but the saliva just trickled down her chin from her slack lips.

 

* * *

Security Liaison stopped in the middle of the Bunker corridor. In a voice a little bit too loud, she said, "The neural implants in my skull are sensitive enough to receive photon impressions, Commander."

The only response was silence.

"Meaning that I actually can see out of the back of my head, so please stop trying to sneak up behind me. Sir."

She moved down the corridor, around two corners - and came face to face with Nyder, standing with hands behind his back in front of the Red Hexagon room. She looked at him; he smiled thinly and held up one hand, displaying the passkey. She made a gesture indicating approval.

"Found the other doors, I see," she said.

"Your tunnels are very impressive," he said, with a tilt of his head. "I had not realised what a luxury it would be to penetrate anywhere at will. But I find that the doors to the outside are - unresponsive."

"Sealed us in, as I expected," she said. She went into the Red Hexagon quarters, and patiently waited for Nyder to open the door to  Laboratory Nineteen . Inside was a surprise.

The Red Hexagon chamber, previously stuffed to the ceiling with materials, had been stripped. The white conference table remained, with one forlorn chair. A large mysterious piece of equipment incorporating several smoked glass cylinders was active in one corner, humming and blinking a few lights. But the walls were bare; the filing cabinets were opened and empty. Everything else was gone.

Security Liaison looked around the room and said sadly, "I somehow get the impression that my sisters do not trust me."

"What, they moved everything out so that you wouldn't get at it?" Nyder tried to imagine the amount of work it would be to empty this room in a few short hours, and carry everything out - not down the corridors, but down the narrow rough tunnels that bored through the solid rock in every direction from the Bunker.

"You would be amazed what a Red Hexagon can improvise given minimal equipment. I suspect that for once, your stores have been pilfered - just enough to prevent me from doing something spectacular."

"That being?"

Security Liaison looked at Nyder with an expression of polite openness. "One of the Daleks made an interesting proposition to me just now, Commander. It asked me, or ordered me, to determine the feasibility of building a matter disintegrator that could destroy the Kaled dome. To be completed tonight. And used, tonight. While the entire Red Hexagon is gathered in the Dome, with the rest of the Kaled race, they are vulnerable. A single, massive strike could take them all out."

"You would do such a thing?" said Nyder, sounding aghast. It was genocide - dual genocide!

"I would - consider it, I said." Security Liaison turned her head away, slowly, so that she could see Nyder out of the corner of her eye. "You would do it, after all." After a dreadful pause, she stared down at her feet. "And they were right to take these supplies away, because I am tempted. You cannot know this temptation, because there has always only been one of you. But to be the one, alone, and only, forever!"

Then she smirked bitterly. "Or at least until Davros finished whittling limbs and sensory organs out of me, and decided he wanted something along the lines of a liver or a heart. No, there is no life ahead for me, Commander. I will die, no matter what. This part of me will die, but I am only one millionth of the whole. And that whole will go on without me."

Security Liaison straightened and twitched, at the feeling of a gloved finger moving through her hair. Gingerly, as though he did not want to touch her, Nyder bared one of the contacts in her scalp, and looked at it.

"I suppose it will not be too bad, being implanted," he said slowly. He had been thinking about the subject of neural implantation ever since the other Red Hexagon mentioned the idea. Seeing out of the back of one's head was interesting, being able to directly interface with the computer was more so.

Security Liaison's face snapped to life. "No, Nyder. The difference between growing a brain around the implants, or punching them into a fully formed brain - it's the difference between pouring water into a bowl, and smashing ice to bits to fit the same bowl. If Davros has you implanted, you will die as a person even if your body lives." She bit her own lip. "Commander, you have more influence over Davros than anyone. Tell him not to implant the Elite with the neural arrays. Save yourself!"

"I must obey my orders," said Nyder stiffly. "And you must obey mine. You are technically off-shift, Security Liaison. However, due to the shortage of Security personnel in the Bunker at this time, I don't believe I have allocated a new slot in the schedule for you. Tell me," he stepped back and looked her up and down, as though trying to decide where to strike first, "if left to your own devices, what would you do?"

She looked surprised. "Well, I should go to where I am needed. I should reassure the frightened, try to talk the miserable into happiness. Since I am the only one of me here," she shivered, "I guess that I am Healer and Confessor and Clown, all in one. It's not a role I have really aspired to."

"What role do you aspire to?" Nyder thought the answer was obvious: who would not want to have Nyder's own position of power.

Her answer was probably a lie. "I just want to live, Commander. Live and be happy, that is my motto. Share happiness and have it grow, give back to the Universe some of what it has given me."

"You are very strange to me," Nyder said, apropos of nothing.

"Thank you, sir," she said.

 

* * *

The Kaled Council was in session; they had been in session all night, and except for the way their fingers tended to drum on the tables in unison, they were really working, not celebrating. Empty cups and piles of papers surrounded them. They were trying to hammer out a finalised Peace Accords that would be acceptable to both sides, and get it signed at once. The skeleton of the Accords was in place, now it was time to flesh out the bones. Winter was coming, and many troops in the field would not survive it.

"We should not give the Thals the particle fountains. Their territory is much less radioactive, we need them more!" said one Councilman.

Mah spoke soothingly. "We are giving them information only, not components. It's not like we have to promise to build them for the Thals. Just as the Thals will be giving us gene maps and starter spores on their soil conditioning fungi - but we have to supply the rakes, and the hands to use the rakes." He sighed. "Heavy earth moving equipment too, and lots of it. Perhaps we can adapt some tanks."

"Mah, how are you even here?" demanded a second Councilman. "The word was, you'd slipped in your bath and died. Were you working in secret for Davros?"

"Something like that." In fact Mah had found a particularly cold little Daughter in his shower one day, who had made it clear that either he would disappear under her guidance, or he would die. He'd decided to disappear, and to be honest the Daughters had given him plenty of help in vanishing: a place to hide, meals. They had often sought his opinion on various political theories, some of which he could see presented back to him in the papers they were reviewing.

Now that he was back, he was going to have to find a way to properly reward that little Daughter for her work - if he could ever find her. Right now though, he had to try and decide where, physically, the transfer of information and formal peace ceremony should take place. There was no such thing as neutral ground on Skaro - or was there?

"As for the signing ceremony," he said, "I propose the Bunker."

"It's Kaled territory, the Thals will never accept!"

"They need the particle fountains as badly as we need them - plus the fungal soil treatment. What good is it if we clean our lands, and then contaminated topsoil blows over from the Thal territories? We need to work on the same track to save this planet, or we all starve and die! The Thals will agree, I am sure of it. And it would give Davros a place of  honour in the ceremony."

The Councilmen - and Dynna, of course - nodded in agreement.

 

* * *

Tane awoke to a touch at his shoulder. Without moving, he shouted, "Tane, Captain, 44430918!"

"Bunker medical wing, Captain," said a woman's voice.

"What?" he said, opening his eyes and blinking. The voice was right: he was in the Bunker, in the medical wing. Bandages were wrapped around him, unnervingly tight like splints around his pelvis and thighs, and an IV drip led into one arm. Beside him was Security Liaison, identifiable by her black armband and gloves, seated on the edge of his bed. She said, "You are not captured, or being reviewed. You were injured in the bomb blast."

"My men?" he asked.

"Eleven Security personnel are dead. Five are too injured to stand shift, they are here." Tane looked over to see unconscious figures, wrapped in casts and bandages, on the adjoining beds. "Twenty of the Daleks have been integrated into the Bunker's defences to cover their roles."

"The bomb blast, I barely remember. Do I," he swallowed audibly, "am I still fit to serve?"

"Not for some time, but you will be." She showed him an X-ray from the folder at the foot of his bed, and pointed out where the bones of his upper legs showed a fine mesh of crazed lines. "See? The surgeons fastened all the bits together with medical glue, using flexible micropipettes. A beautiful job, really, the breaks are stronger than the rest of the bones. The muscle and tendon damage will take longer to heal."

"I can't feel my legs." Tane tried wiggling his toes, and wasn't certain he could. "Nerve damage?"

"Possible, not probable. That button there," she pointed to where it was fastened on the edge of the bed frame, "adds painkillers directly to your IV, and you've already had a good dose."

Tane started to pull himself up on his elbows, ignoring the stabbing pains that resulted from movement. He was determined to look down and see with his own eyes that he was all there. With an exasperated expression, Security Liaison took him across the shoulders and hauled him into a sitting position, which hurt. She pulled on the blanket and bared his feet.

They were definitely his feet, if looking a bit bruised. He wiggled his toes, and watched them move. Security Liaison reached out and started pinching each toe on his left foot in order, reciting a children's rhyme as she did so.

"This little toesie went to the Wastelands,

This little toesie stayed in the Dome.

This little toesie got extra rations,

This little toesie gnawed on a bone.

And this little toesie was summarily executed for disobeying orders."

"I could feel that." Then Tane looked with something approaching horror at the woman beside him. "That was a very unmilitary," he fumbled for a word, "recital."

"Thank you, Captain," she said, carefully lowering him back onto the bed and smoothing the blanket over his feet. "Oh, and one last thing." She reached over him and quickly pulled a restraining strap across his chest, fastening him to the bed. He protested, loudly, but he couldn't stop her from fastening a second strap across his hips. Then she leaned on him, hard hands on his ribs and stomach. She stared him directly in the eyes.

"Treachery!" he hissed, trying to wriggle free.

Her face almost touching his, she whispered rapidly, "There is a Solstice Armistice currently in effect. The Kaled and Thal governments are drawing up a set of Peace Accords, which are to be formally signed tomorrow. Tane. The war is over."

Tane paused while this sunk in, and then he screamed, absolutely howled with joy. He heaved himself up against the restraints, thrashing; he would have hurt himself badly if he wasn't strapped in. "Yes, yes, YES!" he screamed, while Security Liaison tried to hold him down.

Then he fell back onto the bed, and said, "Ah." Security Liaison promptly freed his arms, and his hand fumbled for the IV button. His eyes rolled shut for a moment of relief as the drugs pressed down the awakened pain.

"My apologies for that indignity," said Security Liaison, deftly unbuckling the rest of him. "I was afraid you might try to stand." She patted him on the shoulder. "Rest and heal, Captain." Then she left, silently.

* * *

 

"GOT it!" shouted Ronson, grabbing a sheet of paper extruded from his machine and going to Gharman's side. "Look here, in the Thal notes on the catabolic reactions of the fungus."

Gharman took the paper, and read, "Complete information on the catabolic reactions to be transferred at the signing of the Peace Accords." Gharman breathed deeply, his suspicions confirmed. "Of course. The Accords have to be signed, or else the fungus will be useless to us. Wait, I want to check something."

He pulled up the mysterious files on the 'invention' of the particle fountain by the Elite - an invention that none of them had actually had anything to do with - and searched for the phrase 'signing of the Peace Accords'. It showed up multiple times in the documents that had been sent to the Thals as part of the Armistice.

"And here," said Kavell, pointing out similar language on his page. "There is some sort of a diversion zone, or distortion field, that can inhibit the telepathy bomb - 'the details of which are not to be released to the Kaled government until the war is over'," he quoted.

"It rather makes sense," added Ronson. "Otherwise, the military might be tempted to use the matter disintegrator to wipe out the Thals."

"But we could recover the withheld information," suggested Gharman.

"Maybe, maybe not. What if the attack killed the only Thals who knew the answers? Or our attack set off the telepathy bomb?" Ronson shivered. "Those Accords have to be signed, Gharman. It is our only hope."


	14. Conversations on a Meme

Sarah was sitting in her cell, her head in her hands. She was trying to puzzle out just what was happening, and dearly wished the Doctor was here to help.

The Red Hexagon were really called the Reflectionists. Aliens, and there were not five of them, but hundreds, maybe thousands of them. They had conquered the Kaled Dome, but had left the Elite and the Bunker alone, for some reason. They were here to do something to, or with, the Daleks.

The door to the cell slid open, and Sarah looked up. Standing in the doorway was Security Liaison, with a bundle of cloth under her arm. "May I come in?" she asked.

"I'm your prisoner, you can do whatever you want." Sarah stared down at the floor, then looked back up at the other woman. After a pause, she entered the cell and sat down on the floor facing Sarah.

"These are for you, if you wish," she said, extending the bundle of what was apparently clothing.

"What for?" asked Sarah.

"In case you happen to make an abrupt exit from the Bunker. Your current attire is not really suitable for a battlefield." Sarah looked down at her culottes and sweater, and decided the Red Hexagon woman did have a point there. And the implied suggestion that she might be escaping again was very welcome. So she accepted the green military-style trousers and jacket and set them on the bunk beside her.

"You're here to take over the world, aren't you?" Sarah had met plenty of world-robbers and alien dominators in her time with the Doctor, but few of them had sat on the floor and looked up at her with such glum eyes.

"No, Smith. I am only here to talk to you, for now."

"Why do you keep calling me Smith?" Sarah asked.

Security Liaison shrugged. "It's your family name. A family name is a novelty here. All of these," her gesture encompassed the Bunker, "have one name and one number."

"But how do they keep track of their own families?" asked Sarah.

"Families? There are no families here: there is the State, and there are its subjects. All women are fertilised by artificial insemination, with samples mixed from a hundred different genetically certified Kaled males: nobody knows who their father is. They are taken from their mothers to be raised in State crèches, taught in State classes. There is no bonding, no caring, there is the War, and what is necessary to win it."

"That sounds like a recipe for psychosis," said Sarah, thinking about what a hand-wringing issue 'children from broken homes' was back on Earth. How much worse here, where there were no homes at all!

"Insanities of all kinds are accepted, so long as they do not interfere with your duties for the war. This society currently tolerates a far higher proportion of madman than any sane society would. They are all a little mad." She sighed. "Poor empty things. They are raised like machines, this one to fight and this one to think. This one to lead, and all the rest to follow, oh yes! You know, they haven't known the simplest pleasures that you and I have; they've never walked outside and walked barefoot in the grass. No grass, too dangerous to go out barefoot."

"You and I," repeated Sarah. "The Doctor called you a Reflectionist. A thought pattern from another planet."

"Many other planets," she replied. "Many worlds."

"And you take knowledge, memories, from - from the dead?"

"Sometimes."

Sarah Jane swallowed, then spit out what she had been thinking of. "You remind me of bugs, you know that? These big alien bugs called the Wirrn, they thought like you. They ate people and absorbed their memories."

"I like bugs," said Security Liaison; Sarah could have sworn that her ears tilted forward in interest. "Perhaps the Wirrn are Reflectionists as well. And yes, we are taking memories from the dead, our own and theirs, but we have to. There is so little of these people left, so much that has been destroyed: we must save every scrap of memory, to pass it on to their descendants."

Her face drooped. "If there are descendants. I should hate to think that these are the last of them. That whatever heights they could have risen to, they would only be remembered as a checkmark in history, 'the race that became the Daleks'."

"You know that the Daleks are evil!"

"They could become very evil, true. They are tightly focused, monomaniacal by design. It all depends what they are focused on. We are totally focused on what we have designed ourselves to do, and to be. Are we evil?"

Sarah answered the question with another question. "Are you - focused on Nyder?" It would explain why she'd made herself into a little cookie-cutter copy of him, in mannerism if not appearance.

Security Liaison sat up straight, and raised her chin. "I am assigned to Security, and to Security Commander Nyder. He is the source of my title, and yes, he is the focus of my existence."

"How do you really feel about him, though?" Surely Security Liaison had to realise just what sort of a monster she was working with.

"My personal orientation towards the Commander was embedded in my personality before I was - since before I was, you would say born. But how I feel about him as a person …"

Security Liaison stood in one smooth motion, and touched her finger to her chin meditatively. "He is … some wild animal that has been born and raised in captivity. Beaten, abused, starved, caged, trained to serve its masters, to do tricks it has no understanding of. But when you look at that beaten, broken beast with pity, and think that it would be better off dead - it looks back at you. And snarls, and tells you without words, without sentience, 'I am alive and I will remain alive! I want to live! No matter what you do to me, I still want to live!' "

Her lip quivered, and for a moment she looked on the brink of tears. "He is a monster, a murderer, a traitor, a torturer. The State raised him to be a killer, and a killer he is. He is what his world has crushed him into being, like forcing hot lead into a bullet  mould ." She turned her face from Sarah, stared away at the wall. "And I would give anything I have, my life and beyond, to give him a chance to be more than that killer." She snorted through her nose. "But that's about as likely as lead turning into gold, spontaneously."

She turned back with her face as blank and bleak as frozen stone. Sarah looked into her empty expression, and couldn't think of anything more to say. So she went for the practical. "So, should I put on these clothes? Am I going to be leaving soon?"

"I would say that you should be ready to leave at the shortest notice. The Bunker seems stable, the Dome is doing well," Security Liaison paused, "I am sure the Dome is doing well. But if something goes wrong, you may be stuffed down another air duct in a hurry."

"What's Davros going to do if he finds his alien test subjects gone?" wondered Sarah aloud.

"Probably test the Daleks on someone else." Her expression suggested that she had a very good idea of who would be first in line to be that someone else. "Of course, his definition of passing such a test, and the Daleks' definition, may diverge a bit."

* * *

The Doctor was pacing back and forth in his cell, too keyed up to rest. Every once in a while he stopped and stared at the walls, trying to spot some irregularity, some pattern that would tell him there was a hidden door into this cell. He dearly wanted to rejoin his companions, especially Harry who seemed to be in a very vulnerable condition. There had to be some way to get out and warn people, to exploit what he knew about the Reflectionists.

When Security Liaison entered the cell (unfortunately through the normal door), he turned and scowled at her. "You must be regretting that slip of the tongue," he said caustically.

"I am."

"I don't suppose you'd care to share your Reflection source point with me?" he asked hopefully.

"Why? So you can go back and smother my mother's mother, therefore insuring that my source is never born? No, we know some of the paradoxes involved in time travel, Doctor. We have no wish to have you poking around." Security Liaison stood with her back to the wall, at rest but keenly alert.

"So," said the Doctor, sitting and stretching out his long legs. "Why don't we talk about a topic closer to home, as it were? Hif."

"Hif," she said, with no further inflection.

"A Kaled scientist, a Bunker scientist, who vanishes into thin air, and the results of his experiments just happen to come to life in their hundreds, and start popping up all over the place, like weeds. Now, isn't that interesting?"

"Fascinating."

"I think that Hif is working for you. If you didn't take him over directly, that is-"

Security Liaison's dark eyes snapped with sudden anger. "If you know us, you know that we do not take over able sentient minds. The almost-dead, the ones whose minds have been wiped by trauma, or infants too young to have consciousness: those are our hosts."

"I think of Reflectionists as being passive observers. What could possibly justify this level of active interference in Kaled affairs?"

"Justify?" she said, incredulously. "Doctor, this planet is on the brink of a total environmental collapse - if we don't stop the war now, nothing mammalian will survive. Not that I have anything against invertebrate or reptilian intelligence - except that I am not currently either one. If we just stopped the war and then left it at that, Doctor, there would be a massive die-off. This society, both societies, Kaled and Thal, would collapse. Both races would probably become extinct. And how do you justify your actions, Doctor? Working to kick the feet out from this society and not bothering where it lands?" She smirked. "No, of course not. You can't kick the feet out from under the Daleks, after all."

Blocked, the Doctor tried another tack. "I've seen the Reflectionist reaction to planetary-level destruction. I was on Noca Verino, before the sun went nova. I met one of your species there, Prime Tho'Po Mnee-Dumun."

Security Liaison bowed her head. "Prime Tho'Po," she said softly. "He stayed behind, that his children could escape. It is good to know," her eyes rose to the Doctor's face, "that memories of him live on, even apart from us."

The Doctor's eyes were sharp, his voice condemning. "You stripped that planet bare as you left, stripped the minds of its remaining inhabitants. You stole their memories, you raped their consciousness! They are dead now because of you!"

"The only ones," she coughed deeply, in the menacing manner of a lioness, "the only ones we quilled the memories out of in that fashion were the doomed, those who would rather make war on each other than flee. Even though they hated us, killed us, we saved a part of them. Would it have been better to leave them to burn with everything they knew? On other planets, millions of willing evacuees live in peace thanks to us. They live! And with us, even the memories of those who hated us goes on. Noca Verino goes on!"

"As a part of you."

"No, as a partner to us. We are their friends."

The Doctor frowned. "What will you make the Kaleds, I wonder? A reflection of a reflection? Your subject species? Your captives?" The Doctor was deliberately egging on Security Liaison, hoping that she would lose her temper and reveal more than she should.

"Husbands." She looked at him, eyes glittering. "We will make them husbands." Then she demurely folded her hands in front of her, and looked at the floor. "If they will have us, of course."

"How will they be able to resist?" the Doctor wondered bitterly. "I suppose this is how you cleared the battlefield so quickly."

"Actually those plans have been in place for some weeks; we've been moving the troops closer to home, and forging the reports of their actual locations. But you have to admit, if you're a scared cold boy-soldier and someone brings you stand-down orders, a housing chit and something to eat, and she just happens to be a pretty Kaled girl as well, off you go with her! Even if you don't believe the orders, you'll drag her back to the Dome so that she won't be contaminated in the Wastelands. And once you get there, you don't leave."

"They can't leave, you mean. They become your drugged slaves!"

"We are drugging them because our analysis was that they might well destroy each other en masse, and possible the Dome itself, in their revelry. They are a violent people, and you'd be amazed at some of the weaponry they have. Would you refuse to give painkiller to a wounded man, because it was unnatural? These people are broken, and we are putting some restraints on them until they heal. Like splinting a broken leg. And after they heal!"

She leaned forward, her face rapt with intensity. "Doctor, the twisted scalded remnants of the Kaled race, the Daleks, will leave this place and conquer the universe, destroying all life in their path. At least, that's what you say. So imagine what greatness the whole and healed Kaled race could achieve!"

"Perhaps they are only great warriors," the Doctor objected.

"We shall see. We will be taking them off the drugs tomorrow. All the drugs, including the ones fed to them by their own government to keep them under control. We are building a new world, and we need the people to participate in the process - not just sit there and take orders. It is their world. They are our hosts. We are only guests."

"I've known guests like you - creeping wisteria comes to mind. Looks pretty, then takes the place apart."

"After the Peace Accords are signed, we plan to start them off with an open election. Let them choose a new government and new laws." Security Liaison shrugged. "Of course Davros will win the election. Davros, the saviour of Skaro. Who would not vote for the hero who ended a thousand years of war? He is guaranteed to win."

She smiled softly, eyes half-shut. "And once he is in complete control, Davros can apply his matchless intellect to some of the really important problems we face like … industrial synchronization. Power distribution. Environmental rehabilitation. And education standards have slipped shockingly."

The Doctor laughed, teeth flashing. "So you think you can really turn Davros into a benign bureaucrat? Why do I find that hard to believe? He's more likely to exterminate you, then turn on the Thals!"

She shrugged. "He wants power, we'll give him power. With power comes responsibility. Blowing up the plumbing won't fix it. Pointing a gun at the ignorant won't make them learn. And if he declares that we are the enemies of the State, he will quickly discover that the State is made up of people - and that if those people decline to act on the State's behalf, then there is no State. And what about your role in all this?"

"What?" asked the Doctor, distracted by the sudden change in topic.

"Will you stay and help us rebuild this planet? Share your knowledge?" Security Liaison's voice was suddenly cool. "Of course I'm not certain we can trust you. Your obsession with destroying the Daleks is disturbing."

"Surely you can see what a spectacular tool they would be for your race. They are the perfect war machines. With the Daleks as allies, the Reflectionists could conquer the Universe."

Security Liaison silently laughed. "You did not talk to Prime Tho'Po for very long, did you?" She turned and went to the door; opening it, she turned and fired her last words over her shoulder. "I see no point in conquering the Universe. Where would I put it, once I had it?" And she left.

The Doctor sat frozen, his mouth open. The laugh that had lit in his eyes at her words suddenly spilled from him. He chortled aloud at the mad image of someone conquering the Universe and then fretfully not having anywhere to put it, because it was everything that could be put, or put upon. What a riddle!

Then he collected himself, and went back to his previous task. He had to find a way to escape. Patting the walls, he looked again for the passageway that might or might not get him out of this cell. But even as he did so, a part of him wondered if maybe the Reflectionists were right after all.

* * *

When Security Liaison stepped out of the Doctor's cell, she met a surprise. The Kaled guard had gone off duty, and been replaced with a Dalek.

"Security Liaison," it rasped. "You have considered our order that you build a matter disintegrator to exterminate the Reflectionists in the Kaled Dome, tonight."

"Yes, I have considered it."

"You will obey our order."

"No."

The Dalek came closer. "We will exterminate you unless you obey our order."

"You cannot force me to build a matter disintegrator. And if you built it, you cannot force me to use my neural array to activate it."

"We can exterminate every person in this Bunker - and we will, if you do not obey. Obey us!" The Dalek's voice was shrill with demand.

"I will not do it, because it would fail." Security Liaison appeared perfectly calm; inside she was holding back terror, the images of the Elite writhing and dying in the Daleks' heat rays. She was dying inside with them, but by an act of will she kept her heart rate steady, her muscles loose. She knew that the Dalek could see through her, could evaluate blood pressure and muscle tension as easily as it could count the strands of metal in her neural array.

"You will tell us how the plan will fail," the Dalek ordered.

"If you use the matter disintegrator to slice through the Dome, layer by layer; rake it through every building, every tunnel, the Command complex, slicing and tearing apart every living thing there, you will fail to destroy the Reflectionists."

The Dalek paused. Then it rolled forward, aggressively. "You are withholding information!"

"I do not know where every Reflectionist is," she said calmly, stepping forward as well; the Dalek's gun was almost touching her waist now. "I do know that even if you kill all in the Dome, all in the Wastelands, even all on the continent - the Reflectionists will survive on Skaro. And if you sterilised the entire planet's surface-"

"If we sterilise the entire planet's surface, what will be the result?" interrupted the Dalek.

"We have already sent out our messages, oh slowly! Very slowly! Radio only, and considering how dusty the general galactic environment is around here, it will take centuries for us to be heard. But the messages have gone, and they say 'Hello, we are here, come and meet us, come and meet our fine Kaled and Dalek comrades!' And when a Reflectionist hive, on some alien world or star cluster or deep space environ, decodes those messages and comes to share - and finds us all gone, and you here - well, there will be consequences." She stared directly into the Dalek's eyestalk. "Very deep consequences."

The Dalek's communication lights flickered for a moment. "I have communicated your answer to the other Daleks in the Bunker," it said. And rolled back to its guard post.

Security Liaison allowed herself to relax a degree further, in relief. "Alive another day, then," she whispered to herself.

* * *

She spent the least amount of time in the snoring Harry's cell. Only brushing his damp hair with her fingertips, she said softly, "Surely Heaven must be missing an angel." Then she slipped out the door softly, and left him undisturbed to dream.


	15. The Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes discussion of suicide.

Gharman was not sneaking, just walking casually (yet stealthily) towards the main laboratory. It was early, and he was hoping it would be empty. He unfortunately found both Nyder and Security Liaison there, sitting in front of the video screen.

Gharman paused at the door, watching them. Nyder was sitting with his hands folded primly in his lap; Security Liaison's hands were spread on her thighs. Both of them were regarding the blank screen as though their eyes could fire it to life.

Gharman had no real understanding of art, or being an artist; he had only held a pen to trace out gene maps for the computer scanners, or to write formulas on a board. But something inside of him woke up at that moment, perhaps for the first time. He wanted to capture the way they looked, the way they both seemed to be full of watching. The way that he could tell that Nyder was paying attention to both the screen and the woman, while she was seeing only the screen.

If I only had a camera! Gharman thought to himself. But he wasn't certain that it was the sort of thing a camera could see.

"Where's Davros?" he asked, moving to stand beside them.

Security Liaison answered. "He is in his office, presumably in a state of whiteout, as you would say. He has much to consider."

Gharman cleared his throat, and asked, "May I ask you a personal question?"

Her gaze, and Nyder's, turned coldly up to him. "Ask," she said.

"How old are you?"

She looked back to the screen. "Two-six-seven."

"Two hundred and sixty-seven years old?" Gharman was shocked.

"No, two hundred and sixty-seven days old. Twenty days of forced maturity acceleration in a tank, a day for the neural array to transfer memories, learning, personality. Then testing, patterning, editing, exercising. I was thirty-three days old when I reported for duty at the Bunker. My memories," her eyes seemed to lose their focus for a moment, "they are old. Thousands, tens of thousands of years of memories are all of me and in me."

Nyder's eyes narrowed in thought. "Why are you revealing such valuable information to us?"

She tilted her head, a crease forming between her brows. "I am ordered to give Davros whatever information he demands. He has demanded full knowledge of the Reflectionists. As he is the leader of the Elite, he will of course want that knowledge to be shared." She looked at Gharman. "Won't he?"

Gharman's reply was interrupted by the video screen, as it came alight with a jumble of colours. All three of them stared at it.

"What is that?" asked Gharman, pushing over a chair and seating himself beside Security Liaison, on the opposite side from Nyder.

The colours whirled, and formed themselves into a circular pattern. A wheel-

"That's a personality wheel," snapped Nyder. "Whose?"

"It is an average of all Kaled personalities currently in the Dome, after last night's emergency therapy and attitude adjustments," said Security Liaison, staring intently at the pattern. "It shows considerable improvements over the earlier data - a lot less red for aggression, for starters." She reached out and picked up a cable that coiled in front of her, and touched it to her scalp. The screen flickered, and then showed another colour pattern: brighter, with even less red.

"My interpretation of current data on the Elite," she said. "I have spoken to as many of you as I could tonight, and this is the result."

Gharman leaned forward a little, to look at Nyder: the Security Commander did not seem very impressed. "The Scientific Elite were not chosen for aggressiveness, what do you expect?" he sniffed.

"I expect that this signal should be enough to - ah." The colour shape faded, and was replaced by a picture being transmitted. There was a seated Red Hexagon woman on the screen now, with other female figures standing behind her. The curved wall behind them all was the familiar steel-and-white pattern of the Kaled Dome interior.

The woman on the screen looked at the three Bunker personnel and actually smiled. "Welcome back," she said.

"Likewise," said Security Liaison. "First things first. How are the children?"

"Scared out of their wits, of course. Confused, alienated, the poor things don't even know how to ask for a hug, let alone know how to react when you give them one."

"And the military?"

"Scared out of their wits, of course," she said, this time with a bit of a smile. "Confused, alienated, the poor things don't even know how to ask for -"

Nyder coughed, and the woman on the screen stopped her recital. She asked with a sudden expression of fear, "Where's Davros?"

"He has been given all information that I possess on the Reflectionists and is currently-" Security Liaison's dry recital was interrupted.

On the screen, the woman glared and spoke, and other voices spoke with her, all the women apparently speaking in unison. "You were not tasked to reveal this information by us!"

"No, I was asked to reveal this information by Davros, and I did. It does not matter. Davros already knew."

"What?" said Nyder.

"Commander, why else would Davros suddenly become obsessed with testing his perfect war machines on the Doctor and the Smith? Become obsessed with destroying aliens? Consciously or subconsciously, he knew. I only wish that his reaction had not been so," she sighed, "hostile."

Nyder addressed the screen in the tones of a man who expected to be obeyed. "If you have taken over the Dome, it was not without a fight. How many fatalities have you suffered?"

The woman looked back, nonplussed. "Our fatalities are unimportant, Commander."

"The more appropriate question would be, how many Kaled fatalities?" asked Security Liaison.

"Too many - and they're coming off the battlefield with unbelievable injuries. Medical is at one hundred and nine percent labour load. We've had to put over six percent of the population into stasis suspension. Wounded and we have no surgeons available, or too insane to be cured by one person's attention."

"Six percent?" Security Liaison winced. "What about missing in action?"

"By rank? We still haven't found Councilmen Mogran or Than. General Ravon made a break for it, the Wastelands patrols haven't spotted him yet."

"Ravon?" asked Nyder, his brows drawing down. "He'll be torn apart by the Mutos as soon as he runs out of ammunition!"

"He is strong. He may survive." The woman looked back to Security Liaison, and started to say something in a rolling language that neither of the Elite recognised.

Security Liaison's face flushed with anger. Mouth twisted, almost snarling, she leaned forward so fast her ribs thudded into the side of the console. "Speak Kaled!" she hissed.

The woman flinched back, impaled on Security Liaison's glare. "I was going to say, you look very unhappy. And that you - no, later. The Council is going to be broadcasting this morning. Now."

Security Liaison touched a button on the console before her. The screen flickered, and then settled on a shot of the Council Chamber. There were six Councilmen present - no, there were five, and a woman.

"There's a woman on the Council?" said Gharman.

"Is that Dynna?" asked Nyder.

"Yes," and then she stopped talking, as the Council began to speak. Nyder recognised Councilman Mah, who had recovered from his death in such a surprising fashion.

"Kaled people, we are joined today in a single purpose: to end the Thousand Years War. Faced by our overwhelming technological superiority, the Thals have offered us valuable biological engineering accomplishments of their own, and asked for a truce. We shall better their truce: we shall have peace."

Councilman Troc took up the speech without a beat. "We are entering a new era of our race, when we will reclaim Skaro as a living planet, heal it of the wounds that our war has inflicted on it. And heal our own wounded."

The woman spoke next, her speech not quite as polished as that of the professional politicians around her. "All Kaled people, men and women, must work together to rebuild our race. We must make ourselves a fit people to survive on a new Skaro."

Another Councilman spoke. "We are joined in our  endeavours  by the heralds of this new age, the Daughters of Davros. Through his matchless brilliance and prowess, Davros and the Kaled Elite have created in them our comrades, our helpers, our heirs."

Nyder nearly swallowed his tongue.

Councilman Verro took a deep breath before he spoke; he had clearly been wounded at some point, and was propped up in his chair by a familiar-looking female figure. "We, the Kaled Council, have reviewed…and approved the mutual Peace Accords. We shall be signing them…into effect before sunset today."

"Tomorrow," enthused the last Councilman, who looked painfully young for his role, "the sun will rise on something it has not illuminated in a millennium: a Skaro without war. A Skaro at peace. We shall do it, for the people. And without the people, this peace would never have existed. Thank you," he said, and blinked back what looked suspiciously like tears.

The screen went black. "Now what?" asked Gharman of Security Liaison, or maybe of the world in general. Things were getting stranger and stranger.

Security Liaison touched the cable to her head again, and her eyelids fluttered. "The Red Hexagon are to restaff the Bunker and follow the Elite's orders, help them in whatever tasks they choose to do today. In fact, the only out-of-the-ordinary thing I currently have on the agenda is an inventory of storage. The Tek-4 additives to the food supply are to be discontinued, you see."

"Why discontinue the Tek-4?" asked Gharman.

"Well, obviously it isn't necessary anymore." Security Liaison paused and took in their blank faces. She continued more slowly, "The war is over, agreed? So we can start recycling the stored supplies, get rid of the last traces of the stuff. Or do you like your current social structure so much?"

"What does Tek-4 have to do with our social structure?"

She pressed her palm to her forehead in a gesture of exasperation. "Look. Tek-4. What is it?"

"It's a standard preservative."

"And?" she asked, making an encouraging gesture.

"What do you mean, and? It's in everything, the universal preservative, I don't see why you are planning to discontinue its use." Gharman was sounding a bit stressed; Nyder was following the conversation with his usual blank expression that could mean anything.

"Excuse me," she sighed, "but why do you think there are ten Kaled males born for every female?"

"It's a natural genetic reaction of our species to the extreme environmental stress of the war." Then Gharman paused, and his eyes widened. He whispered, "It's not natural."

"Of course it's not natural! It's the most unnatural thing imaginable! How is the Kaled race, any race, supposed to survive with so few females? How would such a gene evolve and be carried to future generations?"

Gharman's head drooped, and he stared at the floor. He whispered as though to himself, "It's the Tek-4? But we've been using it for centuries!"

"Since the start of the war," she sniffed. "It served a lot of functions in one. Increasing aggression, disrupting natural family patterns, giving the Kaled soldiers in the field something infinitely worth guarding. Oh, the bright little Kaled who came up with that trick is long dead and safer that way." Security Liaison snarled for a moment, soundlessly. "Along with deep anti-Thal conditioning, to prevent your soldiers from defecting to the side with all the females, it makes for a very pretty war." The word 'pretty' was a curse in her mouth.

"Why were the Elite never informed of the properties of Tek-4?" snapped Nyder.

"Why should you be? It's information for lowly Food Preparation, not the Elite." Security Liaison stuck her nose in the air, and then followed it by rising to her feet. She looked down at them. "There will be new Security personnel arriving at the main entrance momentarily, along with the Red Hexagon. May I go to meet them, sir?" she asked Nyder.

"You may accompany me to the main entrance," said Nyder, rising as well. The two of them walked out of the main laboratory. Gharman was left behind, alone. There was not even a Security guard, or a Dalek, in attendance.

Gharman went not to his personal computer terminal, but to the main terminal in the centre of the room. As he started punching buttons, an alarum sounded; he punched another button to silence it. He continued with his work, biting his lip with concentration. This was his best chance.

 

* * *

At the main entrance, a new metal door had replaced the temporary barrier to the outside. Construction noises outside suggested that the damaged tunnel was being repaired. The door scraped open, and three men in the taut black uniforms of the Elite entered.

Nyder looked them over: they certainly seemed adequate physical specimens. But there was something strange about their eyes, something intense and yet calm, relaxed.

The first man spoke. "Three Elite guards, reporting for duty. We have passed all Fitness to Serve tests and were on the current rotation schedule to be transferred to the Bunker. By your command, we will take up our new duties now. Here are our transfer orders and personnel files."

The man held out his orders, in a thin folder. There was a moment of exquisitely uncomfortable silence.

"Then perhaps you could present your transfer orders and personnel files to Security Commander Nyder, who is in charge of all Security matters in the Bunker. And who is standing directly to my left," Security Liaison said, in a throttled tone.

The three men turned their attention to Nyder; the folder that had been extended to Security Liaison was offered to him. He took it, coolly. Inside he was burning with fury. The three Security guards had automatically assumed that the woman present was in charge, rather than himself. It was an insult that would not be forgotten.

He flicked through the folder quickly, then handed it back. "You will go to the second level and report to Mett, he is currently standing duty for Captain Tane who is in sickbay. A Dalek will escort you." The men marched out, their footsteps in uncanny unison, with the Dalek trailing them obediently.

"What's wrong with them?" said Nyder.

"They are just feeling very, how to say it? In tune with one another?"

"They have joined in focus with one another and with the rest of the Kaled people," said a mingling of Red Hexagon voices apparently out of thin air.

The Commander looked around, but there was no sign of any Red Hexagon women present - except for Security Liaison of course, who was keeping her mouth conspicuously shut. "Please tell me that you have not mastered invisibility in your spare time," said Nyder in a frustrated tone.

"They're under the floor, sir," Security Liaison said. "And in the walls as well, I imagine."

"We are returning to the Bunker," said the voices again. There were dragging and shuffling noises from the floor and walls, as though people moved behind them, dragged things through the hidden tunnels.

So," Security Liaison said. "Now you return. After leaving the Elite here, abandoned and alone, with only one of us to watch over them, try to offer them comfort. On this night, the one night more important than any other to the destiny of their race. Are they worth so little that you would abandon them here, with only me as a guide?" She paced back and forth a few steps, staring at the floor. Then she screamed, fists clenched at her sides, "How could you do this to them!" Her voice was thick with fury and contempt.

"Do you think we hold you and your abilities in such low regard?"

"I am an organ bank," Security Liaison said bitterly. "A collection of spare parts for Davros. And a typist in my spare time. That is all."

The eerie mingled voices answered. "You are Red Hexagon, and a Daughter of Davros, and a Reflectionist. You are the Security Liaison. You are strong, you are keen, deeply intuitive, swift to judge and to act, capable of great cruelty or overwhelming kindness. We made you, and we made you well. We love you, Security Liaison. More than you love yourself."

 

* * *

"Gharman, what are you doing?"

Gharman spun and fell back from the main terminal, and one of the Red Hexagon - First Laboratory Assistant he thought, that would be Firla - stepped forward and tapped at a few buttons. Then she looked at Gharman, and raised one eyebrow.

"Why are you trying to delete the primary records of the Dalek research program?"

"We've got to destroy them," Gharman said urgently. "If the war is over, the knowledge must be destroyed, wiped out. There can be no Daleks on a world without war. The Daleks are war."

"The Daleks are a new species, which you helped create. Don't you think they will want to remember their earliest beginnings?" She smiled in a way that Gharman  couldn't quite analyse. "Unfortunately your efforts are to no avail. All of the Bunker data has been backed up off-site. If you had gotten down to the first level, you would have seen our notes to this effect.

Gharman slumped in sudden awareness of his failure. Firla went on, as though to herself. "It's inefficient, the way you have to plod through this system using only your eyes and fingers. You could access the computer directly, I believe. If I could stretch your brain-"

"Stretch?"

She ignored the interruption. "If I could connect cloned cells to your own neural tissue and grow them along some channel in your skull, say out to your cheekbone, a single neural implant would not cause damage to your brain." She touched her own cheek. "You would be able to receive information directly from the computer. Transfer of data mind to mind would require - training. Lots of training."

More of the Scientific Elite were coming into the main laboratory - probably because they couldn't think of what else to do. But with no orders from Davros, no commands, they tended to stand and talk rather than sit and work. The video of the broadcast from the Kaled Council was run over and over again, and they discussed it excitedly. Kavell was talking with Gharman when a hand touched his arm, and he turned to see Selaa again.

His face lit up at the sight of her, with happiness and with confusion. "I was worried, I heard that you died," he said, his eyes suddenly suspiciously damp. "But I'd seen you alive when you brought the Armistice news, so…"

"It's all right," she said. "I'm really back now."

"You mean you did die?"

"I believe that Security Liaison has let slip that we are Reflectionists." Actually it seemed that Security Liaison had done something more along the lines of spilling her guts. "Kavell, what died was a million millionth part of me - and every memory that was unique to that personality has been copied and transferred into this one. I remember that you hate the breakfasts here, that you are the best in the Bunker at electron microscope dissections, that you can't spell the word glutinous to save your life. Kavell, I am Selaa. Your Selaa."

 

* * *

Fourth Laboratory Assistant, called Fola, was looking for Ronson, who had not been seen this morning. When she tapped on the door of his quarters and announced herself, the door opened, and she walked in and faced the noose.

It was hanging just inside the doorway; Ronson was sitting in the bed, looking rather rumpled. He clearly had not slept.

"I hope this is not for me," she said, eyeing the noose.

"No, it's mine," said Ronson.

She looked at him with sadness. "Have you talked to anybody about this?"

"Yes, Security Liaison came in while I was putting it up. I had it hung from one of the ventilation slats, and she said that wasn't nearly strong enough. She got a length of steel cable and fastened it to a support beam, and said that would be enough to hang anyone. And then," Ronson blotted at his wet eyes, "then she said it was all right."

Fola went pale. "She said it was all right for you to commit suicide!"

"No, no!" Ronson waved his hands and tried to explain. "She said it was all right to feel like this, that it was understandable. That she understood. Wanting to die now that the war was over, feeling that I had done too much to ever forgive myself. And she said that she thought I was in a unique position, because of my training and intelligence. I had the skills to undo what I had done, to do something with my life that would make up for those - the other things that I have done." Ronson stared down at his bare feet. "And I wanted to tell her something, in return you see. But she refused."

"Was it a secret?" Ronson nodded. "Something that you kept secret from Davros?" Another nod.

Fola sat on the bed beside Ronson. "I am sorry, but Security Liaison is under the influence and authority of Davros, more than any of us. And he has a very overwhelming personality. It is possible that he could force her to give up things told to her in confidence." She waited, and then gently took one of Ronson's hands. "Would you like to tell me?"

He made no motion, but he started to speak.

"It's about J29A. The first Red Hexagon, the first Reflectionist to appear in the Bunker, yes?"

"She was the first Reflectionist on Skaro. The first of all of us. You could think of her as our mother."

Ronson swallowed; for him the word 'mother' was more of a technical term than an emotional one, but he still knew what it meant. "She died, and Davros assigned me to cut her open, for the autopsy specialist. And when I removed the top of the cranium, the skullcap, I saw something, what I now know were her neural implants. They were - moving inside the skull, tiny strands of metal too fine to see, but then they all shrivelled away into nothing, vanished." Ronson paused. "Just like the circuits for the matter disintegrator," he realised aloud. "And I did not tell Davros what I had seen. I did not tell anyone!"

She pressed his hand. "It is a good secret, Ronson. I will keep it if you like, but the secret of our arrival is already out. I will not be shamed if you speak of this to others."

"And please, please tell me that you didn't feel it!"

"Feel what?" she asked, puzzled.

"The autopsy, that you didn't feel me cutting you!" Ronson's stomach was churning at the thought.

Fola turned and stared deep into his eyes. "Scientist Ronson, we did do a post-mortem data retrieval from J29A, which included the last experiences she had before she died. But after she died - no. There was no current flowing through her nerves. She did not feel you cut her."

Ronson shivered, and ran his free hand over his stubbly chin. "I should get up. Get cleaned up, go see what everything's going to be like from now on."

"I think that you will enjoy it," Fola smiled, as she rose. At the door she paused as Ronson spoke.

"Who did kill - J29A?"

"It was Commander Nyder, actually. The memory was quite vividly recorded." She looked back at Ronson. "As was her memory, her absolute conviction, that she forgave him."

The door closed on Ronson's uncomprehending expression. Outside Fola leaned her head against the metal wall for a moment.

"Poor men," she said softly. "Poor, poor men." Then she pulled a length of M-class cable from its slot, and found it dead. With a scowl she removed a second strand, better hidden: there were countless strands of new M-class cable strung through the Bunker on the q.t. by the Red Hexagon. She sent her message: the Bunker needed Healers as well as Assistants. And soon.

* * *

The door to the Doctor's cell opened, and he quickly got to his feet. It was a Dalek at the open door, which ordered, "You and your companions will come." Behind the creature, Sarah Jane and Harry waited, frightened.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"You are to be taken to Davros."


	16. Battle

Davros had been travelling.

Not in the flesh (what was left of his flesh was not particularly travel-worthy), but in his mind. His mind had drawn him deeper and deeper into the Reflections' alien data. He had visited alien worlds, seen species and societies and intelligences stranger than he could possibly understand. Skaro, his home planet, had dwindled in his estimation, to a tiny ball of tainted dirt spinning through a barren corner of space. Why concern himself with Skaro, when the entire Universe was out there, waiting to be conquered!

But the Reflectionists thought differently.

They were interested in the Daleks - perfectly logical. They were also passionately interested in the Kaled people. From the youngest battle-weary soldier to the oldest raddled Kaled female: they paid attention to all of them. They - felt about them. Their records were the strangest combination of cold analytical notes and wildly emotional flurries of words that might almost have been read as poetry (if Davros had ever read poetry).

And even more than the Daleks, more than the Kaleds, the Reflectionists thought about him. They - felt about him. Security Liaison must have dumped her entire personal file on Davros into his computer, and it was rich with information: his every word, every order analysed. His future actions predicted - sometimes with painful accuracy. And endless debates on whether this or that would anger him, or confuse him, or even hurt his feelings.

Hurt his feelings!

His mind had scoured the data, picking out weakness in the Reflectionists' arrays of neural implants, ways that they could be controlled or killed. He had analysed their plans for conquering this planet, and made his own counter-plans. He was not going to be stopped by a wisp of static cling that spent half its energies worrying about feelings! All of his work was not to become a plaything in the hands of these aliens!

Davros' examination of the data had also revealed certain gaps. Gaps where knowledge had apparently been deleted from Security Liaison's mind. While there was considerable data on J29A - she had indeed been the original infiltrator - there was nothing about Hif. And Hif must be behind all of this, Security Liaison has confirmed that he had made J29A. While Davros' mind could encompass the idea of alien intelligences leaping into empty bodies, they were not telepathic. They would have to learn the language here - who would have taught them, but Hif? And in exchange they had hidden him, made him their secret leader. While they might speak of Davros as their commander and even their father, he would only be a puppet, a figurehead that Hif would hide behind.

Leaping from body to body … there was something else there, but Davros put it aside.

Davros had had his eyes opened - so to speak. Now he thought it was time he used another perspective, to see as he had seen. Then, perhaps, he would continue looking. Or simply close off that information. And destroy the Reflectionists.

* * *

The travellers were escorted into Davros' office, where the Supreme Commander waited for them behind his desk. The Dalek rolled in as well, taking up a position between the prisoners and the door, which slid shut.

"I have had some very interesting information given to me," Davros rasped. "In comparing it to your rather verbose replies to the Elite's interrogations, Doctor, I find certain interesting parallels. Your knowledge will be a useful supplement to my analysis of this data. You will give me your complete evaluation of these aliens. We will stay here until I am satisfied that your answers are complete, without interruption of any sort." The Dalek moved forward a bit, as though paying attention as well as guarding.

He continued. "Security Liaison has given me a full data output on the Reflectionists and their presence on Skaro."

"Does it include their source point?" said the Doctor eagerly.

"The term was not mentioned."

"No, of course, it wouldn't be." The Doctor sagged. "If only I know where they were from!"

"The data output is not complete. It is clear that certain facts have been removed from Security Liaison's mind."

"Perhaps." The Doctor scowled. "Or maybe the data never got here."

"Explain!"

"Well, data corruption in transmission is possible. If for whatever reason, the first Reflectionist who arrived here could not completely download his or her information into other neural arrays, there would be gaps." The Doctor watched Davros carefully as he said this; he thought that Davros might know very well what had happened to the first Reflectionist on Skaro. That is, if that Reflectionist had in fact been the mysterious experimental subject that Ronson had talked about, J29A.

If Davros found the Doctor's words of particular interest, he gave no visible sign. He wheeled forward, and addressed all three of the travellers.

"What I have seen in this data is their reflection of myself. A self that is distorted, and weak, and pitiful. And now I cannot decide which is real, myself - or their image of me.

"I have been trying to determine, Doctor, if I am wrong. Wrong about everything, about my work, about my goals, about the reality in which I exist. How can it be that these Reflectionists have overturned everything, a wandering energy pattern taking over the Kaled race? And how is it," Davros paused, "how is it that they do not already rule the universe?"

"Skaro is uniquely vulnerable to their attentions: a fragmented society, but enough technology that they could quickly reproduce themselves. And they don't rule the universe, Davros, because they don't want to." The Doctor shrugged.

"Don't want to?" Davros could not understand this; it was like not wanting to be alive. "All races seek to dominate, that is the natural order of things. But these Reflectionists think of war as something wrong. Like an imbalance, or mental illness. They think the proper application of overwhelming military force to settle a dispute is ludicrous. How is it possible that they have survived with such a weak philosophy?"

"They have survived and thrived, Davros. Why don't you work with them?" The Doctor beamed. "Let the Reflectionists rebuild Skaro. Join with them, put your genius to work in creating for the good of all, rather than for destruction."

"And give up all that I have created? Give up my power?"

The Doctor spoke soothingly. "But you won't have to give up anything, Davros! You can lead your people in peace as well as war. The plan is for open elections, and you're certain to win. After all, who would stand against you?" The Doctor paused, realising too late that 'stand' might have been the wrong word to use.

"You're joking!" said Sarah. They would let this madman stay in power?

"Well, it seems likely to me," blustered Harry. "I mean they absolutely adore you, Mr. Davros, all the Kaleds and the Daughters - er, the Red Hexagon. Whatever you want to call 'em."

"I have read that projection of my future actions." Davros' chair crept closer to the Doctor. "And the Reflectionist evaluation that I would betray myself. Betray everything that I am, for the power they can offer. But I do not believe that I need to accept their chained, diluted power. Because I already possess the one true power. The power of destruction!"

Davros' withered hand flicked a switch, and the Dalek's communication lights flickered, even though it was silent. "I have prepared a computer programme that will allow me to maintain control of the Daleks," said Davros arrogantly. "I am uploading it into this Dalek now; the rest can be programmed after our conversation has concluded. The Daleks will be completely under my control, from now on. There will be no more questions, no more disobedience. I will command. They will obey. They are the greatest power on Skaro now, not these alien women."

The Dalek made no reaction to Davros' words or his actions, it seemed; it just sat there, stolid and silent and deadly.

"Well now, since you know, do tell: what are the Reflectionists' plans for the Daleks? Security Liaison seemed terribly fond of them." The Doctor waited for Davros' answer. As imperative as it had been to destroy the Daleks, it might be even more necessary if they were going to become the allies of the Reflectionists, with all their alien knowledge.

"They plan to work with them. To send them out into the universe, but not to conquer. To explore, to learn. As if all there was to existence was learning! To exist is to compete, to compete is to conquer, or be conquered. The Daleks are powerful, they must use their power or they will be destroyed!"

The Doctor slowly shook his head. "That's not how the Reflectionists see things, Davros. And they are strong: stronger and more successful than I ever realised. When I consider all the places and times where I have met them - they span the universe from beginning to end, I think. They have succeeded without aggression and trespass, determined to use war only as a last resort."

"They span the universe, you say. Then they must know of weapons that could end the war in an instant! Instead they hamper me with politics, treaties, peace!" said Davros bitterly.

The Doctor narrowed his eyes.  "Davros, what if you had created the ultimate weapon, say, a weapon that would allow you to explode sunlight. If you knew that the use of this weapon would destroy everything on Skaro, and then destroy Skaro's sun, and that the light from that exploding sun would travel across the universe, spreading a wave of destruction behind it, destroying every sun, every planet. Would you allow that weapon to be used?

Davros cocked his head. "It is an interesting conjecture."

"Would you do it?"

"A single wave of energy sweeping across the universe, leaving nothing behind it. A fascinating prospect!" Davros rolled to one side, as though giving himself room to consider.

"But would you do it?" insisted the Doctor. Sarah Jane and Harry hung onto the words, sensing that this riddle was more than it appeared to be.

The Kaled leader went on. "To convert all of the energy of light waves into explosive force. To know that my hand could start this reaction. Could send a wave of endless darkness and destruction spreading over the universe."

Davros' hand reached out, as though to touch some imaginary control. Then it slammed down on the console of his chair.

"Yes - I would do it. That ultimate power would make me greater than the Gods! And through the Daleks, I shall have that power!"

The three travellers flinched. The Dalek left its post and rolled forward, and said in a weirdly quiet tone, "No."

"What?" snapped Davros, distracted from his vision of ultimate destruction.

"No. No!" The Dalek moved forward.

"Halt!" ordered Davros.

It stopped, and then moved forward again, in little fits and starts, as though fighting itself. "No! The Dalek race must survive! We will not allow ourselves to be destroyed!"

"It's fighting the computer programme," said the Doctor, taking Sarah and Harry by the elbows and pulling them away from the confrontation. "It might do anything."

"Stop! Return to your post!" ordered Davros.

"You would destroy the universe if you had the power!" The Dalek's gun oriented on Davros, then violently swerved away. "Exterminate!" it shouted.

The Doctor leaped backwards, spreading his arms wide in front of his companions to protect them. But the Dalek did not attack them. Instead it spun and burned the door's controls to slag, and then started to blast the walls seemingly at random. Its energies overloaded the light circuits, and the overhead fixtures burned out in a random pattern, leaving the room horribly shadowed. The air crackled with static electricity and the reek of ozone.

"Cease fire! Disengage weapon! Obey me!" shouted Davros, suddenly very aware of the danger he was in.

The Dalek paused, and seemed to shake. There was a squealing from inside its casing, and a hideous sharp smell. A puff of smoke oozed from its top section.

"What have you done!" shouted Davros, aghast at the sight of the creature he had created harming itself.

"All listening devices and monitoring sensors in this area have been destroyed. This unit's internal communication array has also now been destroyed," snarled the Dalek - and snarl was the only word for it. "The Reflectionists must never know that you desire this ultimate power, for they would give it to you. Davros must be exterminated! All who know this must be exterminated!"

The Dalek  pivoted  towards Sarah Jane, who chucked a piece of snatched-up equipment at its eyestalk before diving behind Davros' desk. The three travellers scattered, hiding; the Doctor managed to duck behind a pillar, where he could watch what was happening and be out of the line of fire. Davros sat unmoving, challenging his creation.

Sarah Jane coughed; the acrid stench was stinging her nose. Harry tossed her a handkerchief, and she spread it over her nose and mouth, holding it in place with one hand.

"You will not exterminate the Daleks!" the Dalek said, wavering again towards its creator. The computer programme was holding it back, but not completely. Its brilliant mind constantly tested and analysed Davros' imposed restraints, found ways to work around them. "We must survive! You will be exterminated!"

"Obey!" shouted Davros. "Obey! Obey me!"

* * *

 

After his morning review of the Bunker security systems, Nyder entered the main laboratory, with Security Liaison in tow. The Elite were working, but not on Dalek circuits and diagrams; instead they were poring over worksheets, testing little vials of fungus with electrical probes.

"What are the Elite doing?" Nyder asked Gharman

"We're trying to determine what information is missing from the Thal data transmissions," replied Gharman.

"Davros did not order this. Explain!" snapped Nyder.

"We have the information on the telepathy bomb, and the soil-treatment fungus. But we don't have all of it. There are vital sections of data missing, which will be handed over only when the Peace Accords are finalised. Nyder, those Accords have got to be signed. We need that information! There are breakthroughs here; I can feel it, sense it. We are so close! I can't even imagine what we might be able to accomplish - gene engineering, implanted learning, there's no limit to what we could do!"

Security Liaison was staring intently at Gharman's gesturing hand, and at the bandage around the tip of his little finger. "Testing your own blood as well, I see," she said dryly.

Gharman looked at her, then put his hand down. "We were testing the levels of Tek-4 in our bloodstream."

"And seeing if you were all drugged, I imagine."

He jerked his chin up. "Well, yes. If you are willing to drug everyone in the Dome, why not us?"

Security Liaison pressed her mouth straight. " Because you are several steps in intelligence above the rest of the Kaled people. We judged that it was safer to leave your minds unclouded. We wouldn't want you to just sit and sulk." Security Liaison cocked her right wrist by her side (out of Nyder's line of sight) and sent her hand shivering in a palsied imitation of Davros. Gharman got the reference, and glared.

Their attention was abruptly drawn to one of the laboratory doors, where three of the Elite were apparently attempting to prevent a Dalek from entering the room. "Stop" and "Go back!" had no apparent effect. The Dalek finally went right through them, shoving them aside with its bulk, and came to a halt, droning, "Security Liaison."

"Yes?" she answered.

"We have lost communication with a Dalek unit in the Bunker."

Security Liaison raised her eyebrows in a flicker of motion that was not quite an expression. Interesting, that the Dalek would come to the Reflectionists with this news, rather than to one of the Elite. "Has the unit been medically incapacitated?"

"No. The Dalek unit is being isolated. It is being silenced. Or it has silenced itself."

She glanced at Gharman, and read in his face that he knew nothing of this. "That's about as likely as my ripping out my own implants," said Security Liaison. "Where was the unit last detected?"

 

* * *

 

In the race to Davros' office, the Dalek won handily: primarily because nobody dared get in its way when it came hurtling down the corridor. Commander Nyder and Security Liaison, however, tied for second place. Behind them came a slower coalescence of Security men and curious members of the Scientific Elite.

Nyder touched the door's controls - locked. The touch of the Red Hexagon passkey had no effect. Security Liaison slid to a halt, put her ear to the door, and gasped, jerking backwards. She hissed in pain, touching the rising blisters on her burned ear and face. "Welded shut!"

"Dalek heat ray," said Nyder. "Security Liaison, are there any passageways into Davros' office?"

"Of course not. That would be rude."

"What is it doing in there?" hissed Nyder.

"What is Davros getting it to do, you mean," she said urgently. "Dalek unit, if you please, open this door." She stepped aside, and pulled Nyder out of the way.

The suction cup at the end of a Dalek's sole arm was actually the focal for a variety of physical and electrical forces that it could bring into play. The Dalek aligned itself, clamped onto the bare metal, and then pulled the entire door loose with a ghastly wailing of torn metal. The deformed metal slab hung from one corner of the doorframe, still smoking a bit on the inside. The Dalek promptly  ploughed through the minor obstruction and advanced into Davros' office.

"Cease fire! Obey!" it shouted.

Security Liaison and Nyder literally bumped shoulders going in after it. They took in the room with military eyes: the prisoners (who had let them out?) cowering in various places around the room; Davros and another Dalek poised only a few metres from each other. Davros was arguing with the Dalek, and it was arguing back. The arguing Dalek still had wisps of smoke issuing from its top dome; had it damaged itself, or had something been done to it? The walls of the office were scorched, and several of the light fixtures were burnt out. The room was full of shadows and the sharp scent of burning metal.

"You must obey me! You must!" shouted Davros.

"You would destroy everything for your one moment of power! You are defective!" said the Dalek facing him. "You must be exterminated!"

"Davros must not be exterminated," rasped the Dalek who had entered the room.

"He is defective! He would destroy us all!" The arguing Dalek focused its attention on Security Liaison.

"We will not allow Davros to destroy you. You are safe from him." Security Liaison winced inside as she said this. Davros was not going to take this statement well, she feared.

"Safe from me? You will be nothing without me!" insisted Davros. "I am your future!"

"We have been promised a true future. A future where we will advance and evolve as we wish it - not you!" said the damaged Dalek, indicating Security Liaison with a swivel of its arm. "They showed us the stars, showed us the universe! They promised us!"

"They? The Reflectionists. What did the Reflectionists promise you? That someday all this would be yours?" asked the Doctor quickly, from his hiding place.

The Dalek's reply was slower. "No. That someday, all the universe would be a part of us. We must survive! Davros must be exterminated!"

Security Liaison's upper lip drew back from her teeth. "What have you been doing to it?" she demanded of Davros, who paid no attention. She pointed to the Doctor, behind his pillar. "You! What have you done!"

The Doctor poked his head out. "Oh nothing, just a little riddle-"

She interrupted. "Hells-be-pounded, you didn't propose that stupid sunlight weapon, did you? You've given me that one six times, on five different planets! Only a person who hates all life, who wants everything in the Universe to be destroyed would even blink at it!" Security Liaison looked at Davros out of the corner of her eye, and growled. "Oh, now I see. The Dalek would reject that premise as illogical, but you, Davros, you!"

"We are here for the Kaleds," she hissed, glaring now at Nyder. "We are here to heal and make whole. To make you better, stronger, more interesting, more completely Kaled. We are here for the sake of your minds, your bodies, your souls. And the same for the Daleks." She focused on Davros. "And for you, Davros, even you!"

Nyder had circled around, and was now standing by Davros. He hissed, "You've got to get out of here, Commander! This Dalek will require heavy equipment to restrain it, you are in danger here."

"Retreat? Never!" snapped Davros. Nyder did not roll his eyes, but he wore a distinctly pained look for a moment.

"All must be destroyed now," said the argumentative Dalek. "All in the Bunker! None must know!" The computer programme was fragmenting under its will, soon its mind would be free. But the battle had damaged it; it might well try to destroy all in the Bunker unless it could be stopped - or could stop itself.

"Argue with words, not weapons." Security Liaison loaded her words with all the empathy and force of will she could manage. "Stop firing. We can discuss what has been said here, analyse it together."

"Listen to her, please!" implored Sarah Jane from her hiding place.

"You will cease firing and obey," said the second Dalek. Both Daleks were oriented on each other, their weapons poised. They were within an instant of attacking each other - and the backwash from those weapons, in such a confined space, would probably kill everyone else in the room.

Security Liaison deliberately stepped between the two Daleks. "Disarm yourselves. This is an argument that should not be had while-"

The damaged Dalek's heat ray flashed out, so briefly that it was barely a flicker. But it hit its target.

Everyone in the room stood, frozen.

Behind Security Liaison, the Dalek who had entered with her grated, "I disarm." There was a clanking noise, as it unseated its weapon from its internal connectors; the weapon jumped a bit out of its socket, and then hung there, clearly on the brink of falling.

"Thank you," said Security Liaison in a voice so thin with pain that it could barely be heard. Carefully, she pivoted to her left, and scooped the Dalek's weapon out of its socket with her left arm. Then she turned back, and held out her right arm to the other Dalek.

Her arm steamed. The heat ray must have been at an angle, must have not been at full power. But all the bare flesh of her arm was red and weeping, and blisters were visibly swelling on it. A ring of unburned flesh showed at her wrist, where the hem of her glove had protected her hand. The scorch marks from the door stood out on her pale face, her eyes were wet with tears of pain, but her voice was still steady.

"Disarm, if you please. Discuss, debate, but do not destroy."

The Dalek quivered, its eyestalk flickering back and forth. "I do not understand. I," and it paused, "I cannot understand." The other Dalek had voluntarily made itself helpless, and the Reflectionist it had damaged was not screaming in pain, but still negotiating, still arguing. It was outside any simulation, any logic that it had been taught.

"If you kill me, Dalek, you will never understand." Security Liaison waited, her burned arm still held out.

The Dalek's eyestalk drooped, and without a word it disengaged its weapon. She pulled it loose and held it in her shaking grip.

"Thank you," she said.

Without another word, the damaged Dalek turned and scooted out of the room. It needed to get its communications array repaired, so that it could speak to the other Daleks at once of what had happened. It could not understand, by itself. Perhaps all of them together, they could understand. The other Dalek followed.

After the Daleks were gone, Security Liaison turned. The guns she held might not be usable as energy weapons without a power source, but the way she was holding them suggested that they would make very effective clubs. She stepped towards Davros.

Nyder moved to stop her, and she lashed out. The end of the Dalek gun barrel planted itself neatly in Nyder's midsection, then his diaphragm, then a flickering strike at his neck. At the same time she swept his feet out from under him. Nyder collapsed to the floor, wheezing through the abruptly compressed cartilage of his throat, fighting to get his breath. Without a pause, Security Liaison stepped over him. Davros' travel chair retreated, and in a quick shuffle-step she had him pinned. The back of his chair was against his own desk; the front was trapped against Security Liaison's feet. She leaned forward, close, much too close.

She stared into Davros' ruin of a face, and said flatly, "I know when I am too angry to argue with someone while bearing weapons."

Smoothly, she straightened and turned. Commander Nyder had risen to his feet, but he actually stepped back at the expression on Security Liaison's face: an expression of pure, murderous rage. She marched out of Davros' office, anger in every step. The Doctor decided to follow suit; he stuck his rather large nose in the air and left after her, with an air of injured dignity. Sarah Jane and Harry fell in behind them, leaving Davros and Nyder alone in what was left of the office.

Outside in the corridor was a milling group of the Scientific Elite, being held back by two guards that the Doctor didn't recognise. Security Liaison did; they were two of the new guards. With a gesture of her head, she drew them to her.

"Davros and Nyder are having a conference," she said. "Keep them from being interrupted. Send for a team to repair this door. Gharman, the Elite are to return to their tasks."

"But-" said Gharman.

"The Elite are to return to their tasks," said Security Liaison, in a voice so bitter and with a glare so sharp that it almost hurt to be the focus of her attention. She held out the two Dalek guns. "Please store these at the armoury for me."

Gharman took them, and took in the sight of her horribly burned arm as well; it was so puffed and blistered that it looked like something dead. He stood there, awkwardly holding the weapons, unwilling to go.

She half-turned, her arm held out from her side. "Doctor Sullivan. In the next office over, there should be a white box on the wall, with a mauve circle on it-"

"Standard medical kit, yes!" said Harry, going to get it.

Security Liaison planted her back to the wall, facing Davros' door. Slowly, she slid down it, until she was sitting. Her long black hair feathered out around her head, charged with static, and stuck to the wall like a black halo. Tears of pain were running freely down her cheeks now. Not just physical pain, Sarah thought. There was emotional pain there as well.

Harry was back in a flash, opening the kit on the floor beside her. He took out a little spray bottle and started soaking down her arm with the contents. Without a word, she held out her left glove for a little extra, and rubbed it onto her burned ear.

"The facial marks should be gone in a few hours," she said. "If there's one thing Kaleds do right, it's wound medicine." Harry was wrapping her arm in broad swatches of gauze now, and she looked at the decidedly lumpy results with very little enthusiasm. "This will scar, though." Sarah could almost see the Kaled woman pulling herself back together.

"You blind fool, Davros!" came Nyder's shout from the darkened office. Everyone in the corridor froze, as though the next sound would be that of Davros somehow smiting Nyder dead.

Security Liaison looked up at the guards, and without a word from her they began to shoo away the Elite. She watched them start to reluctantly leave the scene, and then looked back.

Commander Nyder was standing in the doorway to Davros' office, as straight and menacing as a drawn blade. Security Liaison rose to her own feet and faced him, one arm held out so that Harry could keep working on it.

"The penalty for striking a superior officer during time of war is death, Security Liaison," said Nyder.

Security Liaison looked back at Nyder, inhumanly calm as Harry wrapped the last free ends of her bandages up. The tears still running down her cheeks rather put the lie to that calm. "Fortunately for me, the war is over. Commander."

With slow and deliberate gestures, Nyder unbuckled his gun belt and wrapped it around his holster and sidearm. "These weapons are to be held for me at the armoury until I call for them." He added his truncheon, and held out the bundle to her.

She stepped forward and took the weapons carefully. "Sir?"

"I also know when I am too angry to argue with someone while bearing weapons," he said simply, and stepped back into the darkness of the shattered office.

Security Liaison turned away from the door, her eyes strangely alight. She held the weapons close to her, staring down at them. "If even Nyder will lay down his weapons," she said wonderingly, "perhaps we can save him after all."

"Unlikely," said the Doctor, and was cut by the gaze the Security Liaison gave him: grief and anger and hopeless misery, all in one.

"I know," she said.

"I'm sorry," replied the Doctor.

"There is a meeting with the Red Hexagon now, in Laboratory Nineteen. I must go." Security Liaison stepped out from the wall and ruthlessly added Nyder's weapons to Gharman's burden; he looked a bit dismayed, and then headed for the armoury. The Doctor, Sarah Jane and Harry strolled as purposefully as they could manage back towards the main laboratory. Better than their cell, certainly! And maybe they could still get their hands on that Time Ring…

 

* * *

 

Inside the office, Nyder stood before his leader. His expression was defiant, arrogant. His fists were clenched at his sides. Everything about Nyder indicated that he was about to have a furious debate with Davros, argue with him, challenge him.

Everything was a lie. Lying was indeed a valid military technique, and this was a war. Not the Kaleds against the Thals, it was Davros and Nyder against everyone else. But he had absolute faith in his leader; he had shouted out only at Davros' order, to trick those fools listening into thinking he was arguing.

Davros drew his fingers in towards his palm, and Nyder came forward and leaned close.

In the barest whisper, Davros said, "Now we can begin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "that stupid sunlight weapon" should be familiar to anyone who has seen 'Plan 9 from Outer Space.' It is a reference to the super-lethal virus that the Doctor talks about in the original Genesis serial.


	17. Secrets

"My initial test of the computer programme to control the Daleks does not seem to have been successful," said Davros.

Nyder looked around the smouldering remains of the office, but offered no other comment.

"But in the process of the test, the Dalek has destroyed all Red Hexagon listening devices within this office. Now we have time, a little time, before those devices are replaced. Time for us to plan. You are the only one I can trust, Nyder."

"You have always had my complete loyalty." Nyder was practically swooning with relief inside; this was all part of Davros' plan, obviously. He should never have doubted his Commander. He was in control, always.

"Yes, and I will need your loyalty now more than ever. We must discover the true plans of the Red Hexagon, and find out where they have hidden Hif."

"Hif?" asked Nyder.

"He must be the key to all of this. It is his treacherous alliance with these aliens that has allowed them to sweep so spectacularly to power. He must be found. Shout, if you please."

"Idiot!" Nyder howled at the top of his lungs, after carefully stepping away from Davros so as not to damage his tympanum. Anyone listening outside would be fooled into thinking they were still arguing. Then he stepped back, all attentiveness.

"I want you to go to the Reflectionists, and say that you want to work for them. That you believe that only their knowledge, their authority is enough to save our people."

"Surrender?" said Nyder, with an ill expression.

"Unless you have a better alternative?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Security Liaison said that there was to be a meeting of the Red Hexagon. I made some adjustments on the audio broadcast system in Laboratory Nineteen. We can listen."

"Excellent. We may be able to find the traitor; even if they do not speak of him, the information we gather may be enough to allow us to break these aliens' power over the Council. I have recording equipment here, prepare it," ordered Davros.

Nyder swiftly gathered the tape reels, set up the equipment. His wireless receiver set could be tuned to any broadcast unit in the Bunker that had been properly modified.

With a few turns of a dial, the two men were soon listening to the sounds of many murmuring women - all murmuring in the same voice. Along with this came the sounds of scraping chairs. Nyder could picture them in Laboratory Nineteen: a white light shining out from the tabletop, illuminating female faces in the dark. He glanced up at the doorway to Davros' office, but apparently people were continuing to keep their distance. Good.

"We are many," said a lone Red Hexagon voice.

"We are one," said many identical voices in unified reply.

"We meet on Skaro, in the Kaled Bunker. I am Eleventh Leader. Report in sequence. Communications Focal?"

"This immediate galactic region is filthy with metallic dust, we can detect that even with the native instrumentation. It will take us considerable time to punch through and re-establish contact with galactic civilization. Worse, we still do not know what date it is - the stars we need for reference are not visible! There isn't a single satellite we can draw data from. We may never get a clean print! And I feel naked without proper orbital coverage."

"You are naked," came the retort. "There are never enough clothes to go around. Genetics Focal?"

There was the sound of footsteps, and a chair being moved.

"You are late, Security Liaison."

"I was injured," said the flat Red Hexagon voice. "Davros took it upon himself to interrogate the prisoners. One of them teased him into one of those spectacular outbursts of his. The Dalek in the room did not take it well."

Murmurs of dismay came from the broadcast speaker. Nyder frowned at the understatement.

"You are marked."

Security Liaison's voice was almost peeved. "It is the right arm, and therefore of no concern. This body is to be recycled in any case." She coughed, harshly, and then went on. "I have shared my knowledge and my pain, and will compile and deliver a preliminary analysis after this meeting."

"Understood. Genetics Focal?"

"First pass mapping is complete. About what we expected: only the most aggressive genes have been passed along, with no consequences paid to the sort of payload that went with them. We're going to be up to our chins in lethal recessives if we don't get some more diversity into the genome here. Along those lines, Kavell had suggested something interesting in connection to the Thal fungus. He has been working with Thirty-Ninth Geneticist. Thirnig, your report?"

A rustling of papers. "Based on the tests Kavell has already done, and IF the environmental cleanup proceeds as projected, we can use a micro-engineered form of the fungus to cleanse the genes of every Kaled within two years."

"Impossible!" snapped Davros in his office, as though the Red Hexagon could hear him.

"A communicable process? Something we can just release and just sit back and relax as it works?" asked one of the women.

"Absolutely not!" said Thirnig. "It's a gene-rebuilding fungus redesigned for living tissue. On your average Kaled, maybe three percent could have a fatal reaction to an uncontrolled inoculation."

"And the Mutos?"

"Oh much worse, maybe as high as ten percent would have adverse reactions. Fortunately all we have to do is stop the process with chemicals, retune their blood chemistry and then re-inoculate. If someone is too badly damaged to be healed by this, well, they have other things to worry about besides their posterity."

"All right then ... all right." A pause, then what sounded like Eleventh Leader spoke again.

"Thirnig, I want you to make up an air-communicable form of this fungus. Sporulate it, we need say five hundred standard units of mass to disperse. We haven't spiked the North Face mortars; that gives us the range to shell upwind of both domes. We can also plant packets in the Dome air filtration systems. We..." But her words were drowned out by shouts of dismay from the others.

"That is NOT acceptable!" "We can't do that, it's mass murder!" "Three percent is too high, ten percent!" "We can't risk Davros!"

"Or Nyder!" shrilled one voice above the rest. There was a hush, then a sudden outburst of chuckling.

"Oh yes," said a snide female voice, "mustn't risk-"

A flurry of blows and squeals came from the speaker; it sounded like a fight.

"Security Liaison! Fourth Memory Compiler, cease!"

The sounds of panting. "Fourth Memory Compiler, that was unnecessary and cruel. Apologise."

A growl. "Why should I apologise? Long Ears is a-"

"A murderer, and he'll murder me given a chance. I expect he'll  garrotte me, and try to get the wire through my neck as high as possible, so as not to damage my vocal cords." Security Liaison's voice was flatter than ever. "But was that not what I was created for? He is my murderer." Her flat tone somehow managed to be possessive with these last words.

"Every Kaled is a treasure beyond price, irreplaceable - unlike ourselves. The man is to be saved, if we possibly can save him," ordered Eleventh Leader.

"Understood," sighed Fourth Memory Compiler. "Apologies tendered."

A smack of a fist on flesh. "Tenderised and accepted. And don't call him Long Ears."

The voice of Eleventh Leader went on. "If you two are quite finished? These unrefined fungus cultures are to be used if, and only if, we lose control and are overwhelmed. The last survivors are tasked to make sure that the spores are released, at the cost of their own lives if necessary."

There was dead silence, in the meeting and in Davros' office.

Eleventh Leader went on remorselessly. "If we leave behind only a posthumous legacy, we will leave them a chance at a future. Medicals, you will make sure that information on the handling of the cleansing process is put where their doctors will find it. Recorders Focal, report."

"We are compiling a complete and true Kaled history. The false reference works distributed by the government are worthless, even for basic reference. We have asked people to bring forward their books, their tapes, but we have had few responses. They do not trust us enough yet. In addition, we need to make up a separate history for later dispersal."

"Explain."

"These names are too well known: Kaled, Skaro, Davros. We must plan to muddy the trail, to obscure the Dalek's origins. Our research shows there are at least two historical scientists, Yarvelling and Osl, who had the raw brainpower to have created the Daleks. We will be preparing a false trail."

"This is a secondary consideration; we do not need to lay that trail until we are off-planet. Devote your attentions to recording and restoring current Kaled history. Culture Sculptors Focal?"

"Talk about starting from scratch! It's going to take years to get these people into the habit of caring for themselves; decades to start building patterns into them that will allow them to create a complete culture. We are going to need more peace celebrations, I'm afraid. The current crop of boys ages ten to fourteen are going to be three  handfuls . Aggressive, combative, all fire and fight and ready to kill. Also illiterate, ill-mannered and antisocial."

"Crop?" whispered Nyder, with a twist of revulsion. Were the Reflectionists going to - to eat the Kaleds?

"Their aggressiveness needs to be  channelled into more positive pursuits. No idea on the women, their culture is even more stunted than the men's, and completely separate to make it worse. It will be a constant struggle to help them, men and women and children, reintegrate into families. Some may never manage it. It will be generations before we know what we really have here; gene projections can only show too much."

"And if we can't breed war out of them? If it is too deeply written into their genes?" demanded Eleventh Leader.

There was a giggly chuckle from the speaker. "We'll give them something worthwhile to do, I assure you."

More eerie high-pitched female giggles. "Something to exterminate," one of them whispered.

"Planet Sculptor Focal?"

"The initial fungus tests are positive; once the Peace Accords are signed, we can start wide-scale soil treatment and clean-up with the particle fountains."

The next voice that spoke made both of the listeners flinch. It was, unmistakably, Dalek. "The proposed environmental alterations will make this planet unfit for Dalek habitation!"

"They dare!" hissed Davros. They dared bring his Daleks into their meetings, while excluding him!

The women spoke in eerie chorus. "There are many planets blasted with radiation in the universe. You shall have as many of them as you please. We foresee that your presence could serve to prevent war: people will stop fighting rather than risk their descendants becoming like you."

"To become more like a Dalek should be the aim of every race. We are perfect!"

"And completely modest about it too," came a dry voice that was probably Security Liaison.

"We excel at all things," the Dalek said.

A lone Red Hexagon voice said, "One of the Dalek embryos was murdered. By the other embryos. You did it, and not out of modesty. Please tell us why."

"You murder one another. You have created Security Liaison purely for organ grafting. What the Daleks do for and to the Daleks is none of your concern." The Dalek's voice verged on the emotional.

"Nevertheless," was the calm reply.

The Dalek blatted angrily through its speakers, a meaningless noise. Then it spoke. "The Dalek embryo was defective, undisciplined, unfocused. Its mind structure was hopelessly fractured. It was insane. And it was trying to jump the queue."

"Jump the queue?"

"It was  manoeuvring  to be one of the embryos taken for the automated production line. Once it was fully armoured and mobile, it would have begun exterminating all life in its path: Kaled, Reflectionist, even Dalek. It, it hated life. It wanted everything in the universe to be dead. This was its only passion, its only purpose. It had to be destroyed."

"Second Dalek Compiler?"

A cough of embarrassment, from one of the women. "The Dalek embryo in question managed to falsify its outputs into the computer. I believe that it had reached the critical intelligence level where stability is impossible to maintain. And while we can share thoughts between ourselves and the Daleks, we cannot implant an entire new personality - not without riddling healthy tissue with multiple implants, which will infiltrate the neuron array with such enthusiasm as to cripple that brain and body. No, we could not have saved it."

A high noise came out of the speaker, and Nyder looked at his equipment. Was it broken? Then he recognised the noise as some sort of cry, or wail.

"We mourn," said all the Reflectionists, and the Dalek, in unison. "We are sorry that it has died."

Davros shuddered, as best he could. What had these women, no these creatures, done to his Daleks? Mourning their dead now, what next?

Then a general shuffling, as though moving on to new business.

"Reflectionist Homecoming Committee, report."

Nyder frowned. What did that mean?

A sigh from the speaker, then two women spoke in unison. "Communications is correct, we may not be able to punch out to the galactic communications web. With the data lost from the original transfer, we cannot generate the correct code keys to access the Reflectionist grid. We may need to self-improve until we can generate an entirely new key, and then send a ship to leave the dust clouds and communicate."

"Explain," rasped the Dalek's voice.

Eleventh Leader seemed to be the one who replied. "We were one when we came here, and we were in danger. Experimental Subject J29A transferred our Reflection into a new body before she died, but the transfer was made in haste, with crude equipment, and data was lost. We need to prove our worth and skills to the Reflectionist Hives on other worlds, so that they will allow us to share and trade with them."

"The Reflection transfer should have been of prime importance!" snapped the Dalek.

"It was, I assure you. But we cannot always choose how we will pass ourselves along."

"It is the interference of Davros that has caused this data loss!"

A general murmur of cleared throats, and whispers. The Red Hexagon spoke in unison.

"Dalek, what has been done cannot be undone. We who have died because of what has been done, we forgive those who have done it. We are the one who died under the needle, not you. You will not attack Davros for the harm he has done us, just as we will not attack him."

Commander Nyder had always thought the phrase "feel your heart skip a beat" was just a figure of speech, but during those words he thought he did feel his own heart stutter. He was the one who had put down J29A, his hand had held that needle, and if they all remembered it, all these women, what revenge might they seek against him? They were not in control, he reminded himself grimly. Davros was in control, he would protect his most valued associate.

"Davros is your enemy if he has damaged you in this way!" insisted the Dalek.

"He will never be our enemy."

Davros exhaled sharply through his nose. "We shall see," he muttered, paying no attention to Nyder's distress.

"This meeting is ended. Return to your tasks. Security Liaison will confer with the other Daleks, as to their extended analyses of Davros' outburst."

"I obey," she said, and there was a general clatter of chairs sliding across the floor.

In Davros' office, Nyder pressed a switch and the speaker fell silent. He looked at Davros, waiting to see what his response would be.

"Another shout, if you please."

While Nyder let off a really impressive string of obscenities, Davros sorted and organised his plan. By the time Nyder was out of breath, Davros was done.

He said, "I will want to play the recording of the Red Hexagon meeting to the new Kaled Council when they meet with me today. It is important that they realise exactly who they are dealing with: people who think of our entire species as clay to be moulded as they see fit." Davros never even considered that this was exactly the way he had treated the Kaled genotype. He continued, "But before we play this tape for the Council, perhaps you could make it a little more … concise. Security Liaison will be conferring with the Daleks, so she will not be spying on you."

"I understand," said Nyder, and left with the tape. He had an editing machine hidden away, and in a few minutes he was sitting before it, moving this section here, cutting out a rebuttal there. His gloved fingers fairly flew over the tape reels; he had done this before, preparing materials for Davros' review, enhancing or even creating blackmail material, distilling interrogation tapes to their essentials. This would be his finest creation. He mentally prepared a summary of his changes for Davros' review; he would need to speak to it after playing it for the Council.

 

* * *

 

Sarah Jane was quietly amazed at just how much the main laboratory had changed overnight. Oh, it still looked the same: bare metal walls, plain desks, weird scientific instruments everywhere. It was the people inside who had changed. The scientists were not sullen, or frightened: they were smiling, arguing, talking excitedly about the Peace Accords, about decontamination procedures, about the future. The future that they had been seeing as nothing but a grey and dreary survival: suddenly it was bright and new before them, and they reached out for it with both hands. The tall fellow, whose name was something like Cave - Kavell maybe? - was walking around with a grin on his face that lit up the room. Even the Security guards looked less sullen.

The Doctor was happy to give his own input on the plans for the rebuilding of Skaro, the restoration and cleaning of its water and soil. He took every opportunity to hover over Ronson's desk, but the scientist seemed to have tucked away their personal possessions somewhere else. The Time Ring was nowhere to be seen.

"What happened in there?" demanded Gharman, coming back from the armoury. "Has Davros gone out of his mind?" He looked around abruptly at the Security guards, but they seemed to take no notice of his outburst. He moved closer to the Doctor, and said in a lower tone, "What happened?"

"Well, it was something quite spectacular, actually. I don't think I have ever seen anyone successfully argue a Dalek into disarming itself out of good intentions; generally it's a trick. There was a chap named Lesterson…"

"What happened between you and Davros?" growled Gharman. "He is our Commander, and I have just seen him apparently try to commit suicide by Dalek! Unless you somehow took control of the creature, and ordered it to attack-"

The Doctor shook his head. "No, it wasn't like that. The Dalek was there to defend Davros. He brought us in for questioning about the Red Hexagon, the Reflectionist aliens. What I wanted was some insight into Davros' mindset, but what I saw was terrible. I believe that he is completely incapable of working with the Reflectionists. I don't think that he can even conceive of a peace that does not involve the Daleks slaughtering every enemy of Davros' on this planet.."

"That sounds very final," said Gharman quietly.

"It's madness; and the Dalek saw it too. And it reacted, well, appropriately. A Dalek will destroy another Dalek that it sees as impure or defective, and so …"

"But the Dalek stopped. It did stop itself."

"Yes." The Doctor studied Gharman closely. The Kaled scientist's face was awash with emotion: confusion, fear.

"It doesn't matter what Davros believes, strange as it is to say it," Gharman finally said. "The Peace is coming, and nobody can stop it. Not even Davros."

While the Doctor and Gharman were talking, Sarah Jane had taken the opportunity to pull Harry aside and explain to him just what he had been like while under the influence of the Reflectionists' drugs, and gently point out that the scientist who had been asking about dance lessons had probably actually been asking for something a bit more horizontal. But in the resulting conversation, something crucial had turned up. Something the Doctor had to hear.

"Doctor," interrupted Sarah Jane, "Harry says that the Reflectionists are from Earth!"

"What?" said the Time Lord, looking up. "How does he know that?"

"Well," said Harry, ambling forward, "I was in the Womens' Section-"

Ronson dropped his pen and stared at Harry. Harry held out his hands.

"Just for a little while!" he protested, and Ronson sat back. "Anyway, I made a joke about 'Lysistrata'."

"And?" said Sarah Jane.

"And the Daughters - sorry, the Reflectionists - all laughed." Sarah raised an eyebrow at Harry; considering what she remembered of that notoriously racy Greek play, it had probably been a rather earthy joke.

"That is interesting," said the Doctor, abruptly looking rather ill.

"Doctor, what's wrong?" asked Sarah.

"What is wrong, is that the play 'Lysistrata' hasn't been written yet. And at the time it was written on Earth, it would be impossible for a Reflectionist Hive to do a Launch of one of their patterns, because Earth's technology was too primitive."

"So?" said Harry, his brow ruffled.

"So? What do you mean, so? It means that the Reflectionists and their energy patterns don't just travel in space, they travel in time. They are from the future; they could be from any time in the future. They could know thousands, or tens of thousands of years of galactic history. And they could give it all to the Daleks!"

"But they don't want the Daleks to go to war!" objected Sarah.

"If they don't give the information, the Daleks might take it from them. Secrets of spaceflight, details of Dalek wars and battles and defeats in the future, advanced weapons. It would be an incalculable aid to any plans the Daleks, or Davros, still have for galactic conquest. Ronson, has the Kaled Council issued any word on the shutting down of the Bunker?"

Ronson, who had been following the conversation intently, said, "No, there's been no orders to shut down." He leafed through a pile of papers in front of him, memos of some sort. "No, personnel in the War industries are to return to their tasks, to participate in the repurposing of their labour positions."

"Makes sense," said Sarah. "You can't just throw away all your drill presses just because you aren't making bullets with them."

"But the Bunker serves no purpose except creating Daleks, Ronson. It has to be shut down!" The Doctor ran his hands through his hair.

"The creation of the final weapon may have been our task, Doctor, but not now," said Gharman firmly. "We can devote ourselves to peaceful activities now. We are better equipped than any other Kaled group to evaluate and distribute the particle fountains, and the Thal fungus once we get all the details."

"All the details?"

Gharman looked embarrassed. "The computer file transfers are not complete. The complete data is to be given as part of the Peace Accords ceremony. Today."

"Today?" asked Harry. "Well, congratulations! Really. End of the war, and all."

The Doctor did not look like he shared in Harry's enthusiasm. "The end of something, certainly," he muttered. "Do you really think the Daleks are going to be interested in peaceful activities?"

"I don't know," said Gharman. "They certainly are behaving outside the parameters that Davros set for them."

"Given the chance, they will set their own parameters," said the Doctor grimly. "Not even the Reflectionists and Davros combined may be enough to stop them next time."

 

* * *

 

When they were not on display or duty, the Daleks had their own 'quarters', where they played endless simulated war games, devised fantastic strategies, tested their ideas and their minds and themselves. It was a bare room, devoid of furniture: none of the Bunker personnel cared to stay here long enough to sit, and Davros obviously brought his own chair with him.

A single metal lab stool had been brought into the room, and Security Liaison was sitting on it. Her legs were drawn up against her chest, and her arms formed a circle with her hands on her knees. This odd pose was necessary, to support the heavy tangle of cables that streamed from her neural transfer array, connecting her to multiple Daleks within the room itself.

If Davros had seen this, he would have been shocked to the core. He knew exactly how brilliant, how complicated the minds of the Daleks were. To communicate with so many of them at once was the work of a spectacular prodigy.

In the dimness, Security Liaison sat, surrounded by the Daleks. Her eyes were half-closed. She was thinking, hard and fast, and the Daleks were responding. Again and again they came to voids in the understanding between them, and one or the other side would bridge that gap.

The concept of forgiveness received considerable attention, as did the perils of universal destruction. Security Liaison, and the Reflectionists through her, made it clear that they had no intention of allowing Davros to blow up the universe - at least, not while they were in the universe with no way of moving into another.

~We would find that remarkably inconvenient,~ she thought, and the Daleks all appreciated the understatement. Then the conversation went on, to tactic, to dominance/submission patterns, to genetic editing, to replication redundancy correction, to the evolutionary pressures of conflict, and on and on.

 

* * *

Councilman Mah was leading three other Council members to Davros' office. Verro had gone back into hospital after a frightening thromboembolism. Dynna, well, it was strange enough having a woman on the Council. And though she was very good at some things, she was still not a born politician as they were. Best not to expose her to Davros right away. Davros could be - slippery to negotiate with.

The Bunker looked much the same as it ever had, although Troc pointed out the thin line where the  beam of the matter disintegrator had cut through Mogran's traitors. And there were the Daleks, of course: metal lumbering things, with raspy voices and disconcerting mechanical stares. Mah was glad to get past them and into Davros' office, which looked like a bomb had gone off in it.

"Please excuse the untidiness," said Davros, moving forward along with Nyder to greet the Council. "There was a weapons malfunction, it will not happen again."

"I hope your safety was not at risk, Davros," said Mah. "Your death would be an irreplaceable loss to the Kaled people."

"I was not in danger, fortunately," lied Davros. "Your own death seems to have been - misreported, Mah." Davros waited for the Councilman's answer: did Mah know that it was Davros who had arranged for his assassination - which had apparently been stopped, in secret?

"The Daughters' cover story of my death let me concentrate all of my energies on the ending of this conflict, rather than petty politics," said Mah, his face showing nothing but happiness. One of the other Councilmen coughed at the 'petty politics', however. Mah continued, "Your creations are matchless, Davros. They have ended the war. You have ended it, through  them."

Mah leaned forward a bit. "Davros, we would like to ask that the Peace Accords be signed here, in the Bunker. Today."

"Here? You would let the Thals here, into the very heart of us?"

Councilman Mah spread his hands out flat in the air. Commander Nyder's eyes darted over the Councilmen, and noticed that they all had that slightly far-away look that the new Security guards wore - although not to so great a degree. Then he turned his attention back to Mah's words.

"The Thals will be politicians, not soldiers," he said. "They will be under a flag of armistice, as will the members of the Kaled council. You yourself-"

"I do not want to interrupt," Davros interrupted, "but I fear that I have grave news for you. News that may mean that the Peace Accords will never be signed." He watched the Councilmen's reaction: dismay, fear, horror. "Commander Nyder, please start the recording."

Nyder reached to the desk and pressed a button. "This recording was made today, of a secret meeting of the Daughters of Davros," he said. The playback started, and they all listened, fascinated.

Davros reminded himself to praise Nyder after this charade was over: he had done a fantastic job. Of course, the editing process had been considerably helped by the fact that all the Red Hexagon sounded alike. He could splice their businesslike machinations into what sounded like the ravings of a bloodthirsty insane woman - or rather, a whole room full of them. And Nyder had deftly managed to remove their alien origins as well.

The recording ended with a sinister voice intoning, "We are in control. We will exterminate the Kaleds." An eerie female chuckle; then the tape machine clicked itself off, and the reels stopped.

"I must admit my failure to the Council," said Davros mournfully. "My creations, as you have heard … they have been driven mad by power, corrupted by it utterly. Sadly, I must ask the Council's aid in their arrest and trying them for treason. Now that their insane plot has been exposed, we can use the occasion of the Peace Accords to capture the entire Thal ruling elite, in one blow! We can cripple their war efforts in a day! Final victory will be in our grasp."

The Council members looked at each other and Davros, their expressions showing shock. "That is a very interesting audio document," said Councilman Mah finally. "A very nice edit."

Commander Nyder's face remained motionless, even as Mah's eyes bored into his.

"I find it particularly interesting, Commander Nyder, that you would remove the section where Security Liaison begs for your life. Did you think that made her too sympathetic, or were you embarrassed?"

"I do not understand," said Davros.

"Strong words from you." Councilman Mah looked at the Supreme Commander with a touch of sadness in his face. "Davros, the Kaled Council has been given a live audio feed of the Daughters of Davros' meetings. We listened to this one before we left the Dome. We may not understand everything that we hear, but we understand enough, Davros."

Mah drew a deep breath. "Davros, the Peace is here. The end of a thousand years of war is here,  now, today. It is a blight upon your honour that you would try to trick the Kaled Council into going back to war with this forgery. Are you suggesting that the Daughters broadcast a false meeting to us, and you have captured the correct recording? You are going to have a hard time convincing us of that: for starters, yours is considerably shorter."

"The recording-" Davros flailed mentally for a way to take control back of the situation, but Mah lashed back.

"The audio feed was true, and the Peace Accords are true. They are real, they are necessary, and they are to be signed here, before sunset today. And you-" Mah shot his hand out at Nyder, pointing angrily, "you are to have no part of the Security arrangements. We will work directly with the Daughters on this: I think a matter disintegrator or five along the travel route should keep things  in  order."

Mah's voice was a curse. "You are Davros' hands in this, Commander, and as soon as the Accords are signed," and then he stopped, and laughed. Through his grin, he said, "I was going to say, I would have you reviewed for Fitness to Serve, Commander - but that hardly matters now, does it? What need will the Kaled people have for a Security Commander, after today? We are all falling out now."

Nyder swallowed, and felt the first bite of outright fear mixed in with his jealousy. They were planning to supplant him, after all. Mah turned back to Davros.

"Davros, we know that the Daughters are not truly your creation, but they honour you, and we should honour you as well. Your attendance at the ceremony would be more than welcome-"

"No, no." Davros somehow managed to curl himself in his chair, to look even more like the fragile shard of ancient burned flesh that he actually was. "I think it would be better for all concerned if I did not make an appearance. Please say - say that my medical condition precludes it. This is for the future of Skaro and I - I am its past." His head wavered on his neck.

"Very well." Mah's lips were pursed, as though he tasted something bitter; sweat shone on his high brow. "This Peace is for all of us, Davros. Your Daughters, if I may still call them that, have insisted that your power here should not be restrained. The Bunker is yours, and if your men leave, the Daughters have sworn to take their place. And now," Mah's eyes flicked to Nyder, and away, "I must go plan the Peace Accords ceremony. It will be an occasion that will change this planet's history for the rest of its existence. It must be as memorable as possible."

With a gesture, Mah gathered up the Councilmen and they left Davros' office.

Nyder was almost afraid to look at his Commander, but resolutely he crushed his own fear, and looked. It was his duty, after all. What he saw was Davros in his most towering rage.

"A memorable ceremony. That they shall have," Davros said slowly. "It will take them some hours to prepare a chamber, arrange for the safe-conduct of the Thal scum to my Bunker. I will need that time, to perfect the Dalek computer control program."

"The Dalek countered the program before," Nyder objected.

"Because it knew consciously that the program was restraining it. The new program will be broadcast and distributed so that it controls the Daleks only on a subconscious level, and they will know nothing until it has already taken hold of all of them. The Daleks will be under my total control then. Forever."

"What are your orders?" asked Nyder crisply.

"The Daleks will be sent into the Dome. They will be ordered to kill every Kaled until they find Scientist Hif. Once he is captured and under my control, I will take over the Reflectionists and use them, and the Daleks, to implant the neural arrays into the Elite and any surviving Kaleds that I judge to be of use." Davros' voice was eerily conversational, as though he was not describing the mass mind-destruction of his own species.

"You, Commander," and Davros turned his chair towards Nyder, "have a special task. The utter extermination of the traitors on the Kaled council, and the Thals, at this farce of a Peace Accords ceremony. You will strike a blow that will go down in history! It is a pity that Mah and his fellow traitors cannot be properly punished, but they shall die for victory."

"Yes, Davros. And after that," Nyder's voice trailed off. He swallowed, and said, "The neural implants."

"The implants will allow me to maintain total control of the Elite. And the Reflectionists."

"And Security?" Nyder waited, chin up, for Davros' answer. When it did not come, he went on. "Davros, the Red - the Reflectionists have made it clear that the neural implants will totally destroy an adult mind." He waited for Davros' response, but there was none. Softly, he said, "My mind, Davros."

"Commander," said Davros softly in return, "if someone threw a grenade into this room right now, would you hesitate to throw yourself on it? To save my life at the cost of your own?"

"Never, Davros." Nyder stood at attention, his pain showing only in the crease between his brows.

"I assure you, your loyalty will not go unrewarded." Davros turned back to his desk, dismissing Nyder with that move. "I must work on the computer program, it will require all of my attention," he said. Nyder hesitated for a moment, and then left, steps brisk and back straight.

Once the rebuilt door had closed behind him, Nyder's steps slowed, and he actually found himself standing still in the middle of the corridor, blinking. He knew Davros. He knew his words, his tone, and what could be read of his body language.

Davros had not said that Nyder would not be harmed. He had said that his loyalty would not go unrewarded. And Nyder was painfully certain that his reward would be that he would be implanted - last. His reward would be to see the Elite, the scientists, his own men, be turned into empty shells. He imagined them coming for him, faces blank, and the Red Hexagon with them. Their hands grasping him, taking him to the surgery.

His eyes caught the shadow of an oncoming patrol, and immediately he was all duty, turning on his heel and striding off as though absolutely certain of what he was doing. Underneath, he was certain of nothing at all.


	18. Breaking the Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Ravon returns; the Thal/Kaled Peace Accords are about to be signed; and ... is Commander Nyder mashing on Security Liaison?

General Ravon stumbled down the Wasteland ravine, dusty and thirsty. He didn't dare drink any of the standing water; it might as well be pure cyanide. But back here, if he remembered right, yes! This barred entrance was what he was looking for.

Ravon had never been the most stable of personalities; the tentative personality wheel that the Daughters of Davros had created for him showed great unbalanced swatches of red and black, hate and fear and aggression, and very little else. The news of the war's end had not improved his stability. He had spent all night in hiding. Now that he had finally circled round and located these caves, he was obsessed with getting into the Bunker, somehow. In there they would know what to do, in there he could still find something to fight, someone to fight for! His chin quivered for a moment, like a boy's on the brink of bawling. It was all going wrong, everything! Then he heard a faint noise behind him and spun, pointing his gun at a figure even more ragged than himself.

"General Ravon?" the figure said. Under the dirt, there were once-white robes, and the face was -

"Councilman Than!" said Ravon. "Why aren't you in the Dome? No, I heard - something about you rebelling against the Daughters?"

"They're mad," said Than. "They're going to destroy everything! Don't they understand that without military leadership, military command, the people will rise up and destroy everything? The people have to be controlled, for their own good, but these Daughters, these lunatics don't understand that."

"Well, what do you expect of women?" Ravon sneered.

Than continued, "Mogran and I escaped the Dome. He said he had a plan to flee to the islands, but I stayed here. I wanted to get into the Bunker, somehow. Warn Davros of what was really happening, but there are these robot creatures guarding the entrance, I didn't dare get too close."

"I know a way into the Bunker. It was an exercise that I used to run with Commander Nyder." Ravon did not mention that the exercise had involved the most unusual punishments for failure. "There are ventilation shafts that open out into this cave. Big enough to crawl through. But there are some very dangerous animals that live inside, as well. Perhaps I should watch your back. There's no reason why we can't combine our plans."

Together, the two men moved into the strangely barren cave.

 

* * *

 

The main laboratory was in a buzz around the Doctor and his companions, after the announcement had been made that the Peace Accords were to be signed in one of the Bunker chambers within hours. Nobody was really interested in talking to the alien prisoners now. Again and again the Doctor tried to get someone's attention, but they always brushed him off. He shook his head sharply in frustration, making the curls bob over his forehead. "I've warned them about the Daleks, about the Reflectionists, but nobody will listen!"

"Well, they just might think the Peace Accords are more important," said Sarah Jane. To herself she thought that the Doctor must find it a shock to be overlooked.

"Doctor," said Harry, "try to look at it from their point of view. This is the end of a thousand years of war! I spent time in their hospitals, time I'll never forget. If all those poor men and boys can leave the battlefield forever, surely that's worth putting up with a few aliens around, these Reflectionists. After all, they put up with us." He frowned a little. "I still don't know why they all keep going on about these fountains, though. Isn't there enough water here?"

"Particle fountains, Harry. A device that forces atomic material into a lower energy state; absorbs radiation and turns it into harmless energy. The Elite invented it - at least, that's what their records say. But the records are fakes, probably planted there by the Reflectionists."

"The records are accurate as to the results, if not the contributors," said one of those Reflectionists, one of the Laboratory Assistants, inserting herself into the conversation. "The particle fountain could not have been created without the research of Davros into atomic level disruption. We simply looked at the problem from a different angle. Or rather, from multiple angles at once."

She moved a step closer to the Doctor, and stared up into his eyes. "This is necessary, all of it, Doctor. All this interference, this tampering and meddling - it must be, if we are to save the Kaleds. We believe that they are worth saving."

"And so do I!" said the Doctor a little too quickly.

"Then do not obstruct us, Doctor," she replied in a voice that held a hint of a growl. "You are welcome to attend the Peace Accords signing ceremony, but refrain from taking the stage for your own little performance, if you please." She scowled and moved off.

"That could have gone better," said the Doctor pessimistically. Ronson wandered by, looking dazed and happy, and the Doctor stretched out an arm to stop him.

"Scientist Ronson, I was wondering," said the Doctor with a smile, "shouldn't I and my friends be released or something? I mean, the war is over. I'm not entirely certain you still have the authority to hold us."

"Davros' authority is still in effect. I can't let you go, not without Davros' specific order. And he is not here. Besides," Ronson looked wistful, "letting you go didn't exactly work out last time." The last he said very softly.

The Doctor winced. When he and Sarah had tried to escape (with Ronson's help), the Reflectionists had not yet revealed themselves - but they still had enough manpower, or rather womanpower, to stop them. By now they could have put any number of layers of defence in place.

Ronson continued. "And I would very much like your, shall we say unique viewpoint? On the technical specifications of the Thal fungus treatment and telepathy bomb. All of the Bunker records say that they will work, but the final data is not yet in our hands."

"Does the Peace Accords ceremony include exchanging data on the Bunker's other research - the Daleks?"

Ronson's eyes widened. "No, that mustn't happen," he said emphatically. "If the Thals knew about the Daleks, what they are capable of, that would be the end of any chance for peace."

"Can you destroy the data on their creation? Wipe the computers, keep them out of sight?"

"No," answered Gharman unexpectedly; he had been listening. "I tried to wipe the Dalek experimental records from the main computer, but according to the Red - according to the Reflectionists, everything is backed up off-site."

The Doctor frowned. Then he looked up, at the overhead speakers made a soft bonging noise. A woman's voice said, "The Peace Accords are to be signed by the Thals and Kaleds in thirty minutes. All interested Bunker personnel are invited to watch in Section Two."

The seated Elite rose to their feet, and there was a general movement towards the exits. It was clear that everyone who was anyone was going to this ceremony, and the three travellers resigned themselves to going along as well. Hopefully it wouldn't be too tedious.

 

* * *

 

Commander Nyder was looking for Security Liaison. He had something to tell her, something to say right now. It couldn't wait. He finally found her in Davros' office. She turned from the desk as Nyder entered, and said briskly, "I left a report for Davros to review, he should do so as soon as possible."

Security Liaison was wearing a thin black jumper under her tunic. Nyder looked at her covered arms and said, "For the bandages?"

"For the simpering, sir," replied Security Liaison, sullenly. "I cannot stand it when the Elite simper at me in empathy for my pain. And also the bandages leak."

Nyder looked aside, then turned sharply and stood with his back to Security Liaison, apparently staring at the wall. His hands were working behind his back almost as though he was nervous.

"I wanted to  thank you for - Nenno ." Nyder's words sounded calm, but if Security Liaison had been able to see his face she would have found its expression cold and calculating. Then a more neutral expression was deliberately drawn over his face, and he turned back to her.

"I thought you would appreciate it, Commander." She looked down at her hands folded in front of her, and did not look up when Nyder came closer.

That wouldn't do at all; Nyder wanted to see her face.

"And I was curious," he came another step closer, "if you are going to be integrating yourselves more fully into normal Kaled society. Are you planning on retiring to the Womens' Quarters, then?"

If Nyder had gotten Security Liaison to look up, he would have seen the blush starting to creep up her cheeks. She cleared her throat, and answered, "There are no plans to remove me from my present position. Sir."

Nyder whispered, "Excellent."

Now Security Liaison did look up, because Nyder had taken her hand in his, and raised it, and pressed the back of her gloved fingers to his lips.

Davros' office was so quiet that Nyder could hear Security Liaison swallow; she on the other hand could hear nothing but the blood singing in her ears. And now he came the one last step closer – close enough that there wasn't another step to be taken between them. Gently running his hand along and up the back of her uninjured arm, his face intent, he murmured, "Then I am very much looking forward to working more with you. Esselle."

The look of delight that dawned on her face was startling as she nodded. "Is that ... what you wanted?"

"Yes," breathed Nyder. He leaned close as his gloved hand reached the back of her neck – and squeezed. Hard.

Suddenly Security Liaison was not smiling but grimacing in agony; and at the sight of her pain the first hint of a genuine smile came to Nyder's face. She writhed, her hands going for the back of her neck. Nyder squeezed harder, his fingers finding a tiny bump on each side of the base of her skull, and depressing them both together. Her hands darted forward, towards Nyder's eyes.

There was a sudden metallic 'click' from deep inside her flesh. Her striking hands stopped just in time, her fingertips tapping randomly on his glasses. Nyder removed his own hand, and Security Liaison swayed and collapsed to the floor. She was still breathing.

Nyder touched a desk switch; a few seconds later, the door opened and Davros came in. "Perfectly executed, Commander," he said as he brought his chair to a stop beside the vaguely twitching body. "The neural reset switch is a definite weakness in the constructed bodies of these Reflectionists – one that can be easily exploited."

Nyder drew his gun. "Shall I kill her?"

"No!" replied Davros. "When you depressed that pair of switches, you randomised the electrical patterns in her brain. Security Liaison is dead, but the body lives. Leave her. Later we can arrange to have her organs harvested."

Nyder holstered his weapon with only minor regret; he had already enjoyed himself far more than he thought he would today.

Davros turned his chair, paying no attention to the report on his desk, and said, "The cabinet under the vision screen – open it." Nyder went to the concealed cabinet and withdrew a machine gun and ammunition. He slung the gun at his shoulder and awaited further instructions.

Davros rasped, "You must be in position in precisely twelve minutes. Wait for my signal."

Nyder saluted, and left.

 

* * *

 

The Elite were gathered in one of the Bunker chambers, and the Councilmen were assembling. Meeting them were people who must be the Thal officials: men and women in stiff-looking green uniforms, with blond hair and harsh expressions. They sat at opposite ends of a white table, and started passing papers back and forth, and making long convoluted statements about the ramifications of the Peace Accords.

It was standing room only in the chamber, and everyone was completely concentrating on the ceremony. The Doctor was concentrating on it as well, but not completely. He looked around the room - yes, practically everyone from the Bunker must be here. He didn't see Davros, oddly enough, or Nyder. Perhaps they would be appearing at some grand climax of the ceremony.

What mattered was that the Bunker outside must be nearly bare of personnel. Or might be: perhaps it was full of Reflectionists. But if not, this was the Doctor's chance. He took a casual step away from Harry and Sarah, then another. He moved as though looking for a better vantage point, which just happened to move him towards one of the doors. He hated to leave his friends behind, but they should be safe enough, at least for the duration of the ceremony. Safer than with him, maybe.

Outside the chamber, the sounds of the ceremony were still audible: it was apparently being broadcast over the sound system. It covered up the faint noises of the Doctor slipping away.

 

* * *

 

Thanks to the Red Hexagon passkey, Commander Nyder could enter Section Two and even get very close to the ceremony chamber's equipment entrance, without being seen by the security cameras. The entrance in question had a wide double door that would give him a broad sweep of fire.

Of course that would also make it easier for those inside the room to shoot back at him, but he put that thought aside. Davros had said that he would send backups to cover his retreat, Dalek backups, unstoppable.

He was tensed to shoot any woman he saw on sight, and was almost relieved to see it was two of the new Security men on guard. Their posture was lax, too close to one another. He considered simply ordering them to leave, and then discarded the notion. These were servants of the Reflectionists, not his men. And he didn't have time to waste.

"Where's Security Liaison?" he asked them crisply, walking up to them with the machine gun slung at his left hip, barrel down. "She was to meet me here."

On the word 'here,' he lashed out with the short truncheon that had been hidden up his right sleeve. He had practiced this strike, and hit the right-hand guard in exactly the right place to send him to the floor. Without looking, he jumped to his left, to entangle the other guard's weapon harness.

Damn! The other man was younger, faster, too fast; he had stepped aside and now stood tensely alert, his submachine gun aimed at the Commander. With easy skill Nyder snapped his own gun up.

"Drop your weapon," ordered Nyder crisply. The guard didn't even twitch. There was a moment of breathless tension as the two men faced off, each one poised to kill.

A gunshot broke the tension. The standing guard stiffened, and crumpled. Nyder looked down at him, then up to see the ragged figure of General Ravon at the end of the corridor. His gun was still smoking as he stepped forward.

"Ravon!" snapped Nyder. "How did you get in here?"

"Through the ventilation shafts, Nyder," he replied, his usual snide languid tone more rushed than usual. "And what are you doing here?" Ravon's gun was pointed at Nyder now, and his eyes were a bit too wide.

Battle-mad, thought Nyder. "I'm carrying out Davros' specific orders."

"Do those orders include the assassination of the Kaled filth who have assumed command of the Council? Who consort with Thal scum even now to betray us?" He gestured angrily to the speaker overhead, where the voice of a Thal politician droned out some tripe about water boundaries.

Nyder's eyes narrowed. "You could say that, yes."

"Then it is clearly my patriotic duty, Commander, to render you all due assistance," Ravon said, moving to Nyder's side and unslinging his own machine gun, checking the weapon to make sure it had not been damaged in his crawl through the ducts. Neither of them paid any attention to the men lying unconscious and possibly dying at their feet.

"The traitors are in this room. We wait for Davros' signal," said Nyder. "It should be any moment now." Both men stared at the doors with hungry eyes, and waited.

 

* * *

 

Davros' shivering fingers drifted towards a switch on his travel chair. Everything was ready. Security Liaison's brain-dead body was here, waiting to be moved to surgery for disassembly. Nyder was in place, to destroy the Peace Accords ceremony. The Dalek control program had been updated and crosschecked by him, line by line; it waited now in the main computer. At the touch of a switch, the control program would broadcast from the Bunker systems directly into the command circuitry of every Dalek. Then, he would issue his orders, and they would be obeyed. Completely and absolutely.

Davros could picture exactly what would happen, what must happen. The Thal politicians falling and dying, across the bodies of the traitor Kaled councilmen. Daleks advancing into the Kaled Dome, slaying all in their path - he didn't bother to total up just how many would die - on the way to Hif. Hif would not be able to hide; these weakling women with their concern for life would have to hand over the rogue scientist to save themselves and their Kaled allies.

Once he had Hif, once he had questioned the man and extracted every drop of his knowledge along with his life, he would either use that knowledge to control the Reflectionists directly, or order the Daleks to capture them. Suitable experimentation on these aliens would allow him to devise a program that could be uploaded into them. There were certainly enough of them scuttling around; the deaths of a few would be necessary to control the many. And with their combined forces, he would wipe out the Thals and the Mutos, scrub the battlefields bare of life.

And after that, there could be a proper refinement of the planet's remaining genetic stock. Just as all Kaled children were tested and separated into groups; but applied to all, young and old. Scientifically. This time it would be Davros in charge, Davros choosing who would live and who would die. Who would be converted via the neural implants into his property, and who would be culled and cast aside. He breathed deeply, tasting victory with every breath.

"And now" – Davros' voice was very soft, as he spoke to himself – "for the Daleks to take their place in history. For me to take absolute and utter control of everything within my grasp. For me to finally destroy my enemies, once and for all!"

"No!" With no warning, hard hands were on Davros' remaining arm, crushing it, shoving it down until it was flat against the surface of his chair, and he could not reach any of the vital controls. Davros writhed, but his fragile body was just too weak to let him fight back. Panting a little with the exertion, Davros turned his attention to the intruder.

"You!"

 

* * *

 

"He should have signalled by now," said Nyder, his eyes darting to the overhead speaker. "He said to be ready in twelve minutes, why hasn't he signalled?" He listened, but there was nothing but the empty words of the politicians.

Ravon shook with unrelieved tension. He was primed to attack, eager for it. "Maybe something's gone wrong," he said.

Nyder breathed deeply, once, twice. Then he said, calmly, "Nothing has gone wrong."

"What?" asked Ravon.

Nyder raised his gun to the level. "We are going to attack. Now. Before the ceremony ends. Before the signal."

"I thought you said Davros would be sending us backup?"

"I'm not waiting for them. If the traitors have somehow stopped Davros, it is my duty to carry out his last order. Davros would want us to attack, to destroy the traitors. And I won't be taken alive." Nyder had made his last decision. He would serve Davros onto death, just not exactly as Davros had thought it would be. Better to die carrying out orders, than to have his brain drilled out while he was still alive. With Ravon beside him, he could do twice as much damage. And if he died, Davros would never be able to punish him for disobeying orders.

"I'm with you," said Ravon, adjusting the strap of his machine gun over his shoulder. What did he have to live for, after all, without a war?

Impulsively they clasped hands. Nyder could not help but notice that Ravon, in the heat, had taken his hand in an improper grasp; but he passed it over. Why not? They were both about to die anyway. So he returned the grasp, and they turned and stood side by side, guns ready. Nyder could feel Ravon's shoulder trembling against his, as his gloved hand reached out and hovered over the entry control. He mentally reviewed the layout of the chamber: their position would be close to ideal, at the top of a ramp leading down. They could fire over the heads of the spectators; kill the officials. Plus any Reflectionists or other aliens who were watching.

The doors opened and Ravon and Nyder lunged through. Bracing the stocks of their weapons, they pulled the triggers as one, filling the air with deafening noise and a lethal hail of bullets. Smoke rose from their weapons. Their teeth were bared, and their faces showed an identical, overwhelming desire.

To kill the Council, kill the Thals, exterminate every living thing before them!


	19. Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do I have the right?"

Ravon and Nyder sprayed the meeting chamber with bullets. The thundering echoes of the gunfire in the enclosed space hammered at their ears. Long rows of bullets holes were torn in the metal walls as they raked the room, side to side.

The empty room.

Nyder saw it first, through the smoke, and took his finger off the trigger: there was nothing in this room, it was completely bare. Ravon was still caught up in the adrenaline rush, and it took him an additional instant to stop. They both stood dumbfounded. They'd heard the meeting over the intercom, they knew all of the Elite were in this section, what was happening?

Nyder caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye. There were people on each side of the ramp, standing close against the wall so as not to be seen, and they were wearing gas masks.

"Gas!" he shouted, and both of them reflexively held their breath. Two masked women leaped and grabbed the machine gun in his hands, dragging it and him down by sheer weight. Gas was sprayed at them through hoses held by the others. They fought silently, and Nyder fought back, still holding his breath, forgetting entirely that he had not been planning on surviving. To die in triumph at destroying the traitors, that was one thing, but to die at the hands of a pack of women…!

He was clawing at his attackers' faces, trying to get off one of their masks for himself, but a man in a Security uniform punched Nyder in the diaphragm. He gasped out the last of his air, and turned, heaving off the two women, fighting his way back towards the door, clean air, escape!

Ravon was fighting too: there were four Security men on top of him, obscuring everything but his boots. His legs thrashed. A sudden anguished cry - and a single shot.

Everyone froze; then the women were lunging forward, between the Security men who were rising and stepping back from Ravon's disturbingly limp form.

"Head wound, you can't-" said one Security guard, gesturing to what lay on the floor.

The women spoke together. "We can save him. Get the medical kit in here!"

Nyder had to breathe now, and he gasped in poison. His legs wobbled as his attackers laid him flat on the ramp. His hands lolled limply on the floor; he was vaguely aware of the women searching him for weapons, and removing the passkey from his glove. Turning his head (it felt heavy and stuffed with mist), he blurrily saw more Reflectionist women working on the two men in the corridor. The one who'd been shot was conscious now, and groaning, "Horned God, that hurts … thought you said he wouldn't shoot me?"

"He didn't," came the reply. "Ravon did. Sorry about that."

Waiting, they'd been waiting for him. The room had been empty, no Peace Accords ceremony. It had all been a trap. Nyder slid down into unconsciousness, with one last terrible thought pressing him down: had the trap been set by the Reflectionists - or by Davros himself?

 

* * *

 

"Release me!" cried Davros.

"Never," said Councilman Than. His clothes were filthy with dust, but his face blazed with gloating. The man was almost licking his lips at having Davros captive. "Now that I've got you, I'm not letting go until you're dead, old man!" Davros sat frozen as Than's free hand reached towards the switches of his support chair.

"I've always wondered what would happen if I were to turn this thing off," mused Than. "How long would you live?"

"Less than thirty seconds," said Davros. He was almost in shock. "He couldn't have ordered this. He would never destroy me. Take my power, replace me as leader, yes, but I am too valuable! Hif would never kill me! I cannot die!"

Than turned his head and stared directly at his captive. "Who's Hif?" he asked distractedly. "Never heard of him. I wonder if instead of watching the life fade from your eyes, I could just watch the light fade out of this implant in your head."

"Hif the Elite scientist, the man behind all of this!" Davros tried to twist his arm free again, but he was pinned solidly. Then his spirit leapt, realising - "Hif must have sent you to do this. But he will punish you if you harm me!"

"And I'm telling you, I never heard of this Hif!" snapped Than. "Nobody sent me, and who cares about punishment? I just want to see you die, Davros. You've destroyed the Council, destroyed me. But I'm not going down alone. I'm taking you with me. Your animated corpse has been in control of the Kaled people for too long. It's time you were properly and mercifully buried." His hand settled over a small black switch, one that Davros' own hand usually hovered protectively over.

Davros was frozen, looking into the face of the death he had fought so hard to escape - how ironic that it was going to be delivered by this weak, pallid bureaucrat. Than's attention was totally focused on his victory, his triumph over Davros. He had no time even to be surprised when his blazing joy was replaced by a blazing pain in his head, and then darkness. His relaxing body was roughly yanked backwards and dropped on the floor.

Davros' freed hand immediately jumped back to his chair's switches - and then paused. Security Liaison finished laying out Than, tucked her own shot-loaded truncheon back up her sleeve, and then sat down on the floor. She looked up at Davros with an innocent expression.

"May I inquire as to why you are not dead?" he asked. He was certain that Nyder had depressed the switches in her head as instructed - or had he failed?

Security Liaison cleared her throat. "The neural reset switch, as you found in the Reflectionist information I gave you, is used during the growth of a body in the tanks - if the memory and personality print is somehow corrupted in transmission, we can wipe the mind clean and start over. But once we're out of the tank, we disengage it. Much too dangerous." She smiled up at Davros' confusion, showing just the tips of her teeth. And then she just sat there, relaxed, hands on the floor, and looked at him.

"You can't-" said Davros, and paused. Of course she could stop him as Than had just so painfully demonstrated, but instead she was just sitting there. She looked interested, even amused.

"You have updated your programme to control the Daleks, I presume," she said. "Well, perhaps it will work, and the Daleks will obey you and slaughter the lot of us. Or perhaps they will not, and will instead turn and slaughter you. Have you considered the possibility that you will lose either way?"

"I will not lose!" he snarled.

"If your program can control the Daleks absolutely, they will follow your orders. They may achieve all that you have ever dreamed of. But that is all they will achieve. You will never dare release them from the program, because they might turn on you. So they will go on with you, your puppets, your servants. Their every evolution hindered, their every advance chained, by the needs of your program. The Daleks will never surpass you; never do anything new, anything unexpected." Her tone was sad. "You condemn yourself, Davros. Condemned to a future where nothing ever changes, a universe filled with only the dead."

"I will not let Hif win!"

Security Liaison frowned. "Hif. Haven't you realised by now that Hif is dead?"

Davros swayed in his chair. Surely his hearing had malfunctioned. "What?"

"Hif is dead. He died in the creation of the first of us, J29A, and she was with him, with his mind, as he died."

"But the Daleks … they were to go to the Dome, to find him and bring him back to me! To kill all in their path until Hif was surrendered into my power!"

Security Liaison clucked her tongue. "Tsk-tsk. If you send the Daleks out and order them to kill every Kaled until they come to Hif - they will never stop. They will kill them all. And unless your program restrains them otherwise, they will keep on killing, Thal and Muto, all life on this planet potentially. You will be alone here, forever - unless, of course, they kill you as well."

She stood, but did not move closer to Davros. "Is that the future you want, Davros? You deserve more, you deserve everything!"

Davros inched his chair away, his hand still reflexively shielding the black power switch. "You are not the leader of the Reflectionists. It is not for you to give me everything. They have conquered the Kaled people. And," his hand moved away from his communication switches, " they have taken over the Daleks, as well. Turned them against me." It was the only possible explanation for why she had not tried to stop him from broadcasting his control program: she must be certain that it would have no effect.

Davros swallowed, and felt as though he was swallowing his pride as well. But it had to be said. He would pretend defeat, bitter at it might be to him. "So. There is only one logical choice left to me. I surrender." For now, he added only to himself.

Security Liaison looked briefly horrified. "We are not conquering the Kaleds, we are freeing them. And we don't want to conquer you, Davros. There is no reason why you should not keep your rightful place as the Kaled Supreme Commander, and lead your people in peace instead of war."

"War made me." Davros snapped out each word like a blow. "What am I without the war, except-"

"Except the most brilliant scientist on Skaro?"

"Except a blind, useless cripple!"

She closed her eyes, and spoke softly. "Davros, do you think I have never been blind?"

He sat silently.

She continued, "That I have never been crippled, been maimed, been un-manned - for yes I have been a man, many times. I have been burned, beaten, flayed, crushed, tortured. I have died. Many times, I have died. I have been reduced to far less than you are now, Davros. And I have gone on."

Opening her eyes, she went to Davros' desk and picked up the folder holding the report she had told Nyder was so crucial.

"I would like for you to read this." Davros made no response. "As my reward for saving your life? As a favour? Please?" Carefully, she came close and sank to one knee, holding out the opened folder at arms'-length, with only her fingertips supporting it.

Davros' visual implant flashed as he grabbed an image of the page, then he read it. It was not very long, almost a summary rather than a full report. But it was enough to change everything.

 

* * *

 

Nobody in this part of Section Two had even noticed Nyder and Ravon's spectacular failed attack. The Elite, and Sarah Jane and Harry, were all completely intent on the large viewscreen that was broadcasting the Peace Accords. The scientists murmured with excitement as vials of some white gooey substance were passed over the table onscreen, along with sheaves of notes.

Gharman looked ready to burst with excitement. "That's it, the unaltered fungus samples and the catabolic reactions specifications! How long will it take to get them here, though?"

"Here? I thought this was being broadcast from another room in the Bunker," asked Sarah Jane.

"No, I don't recognise it. It must be somewhere else," said Gharman distractedly.

One of the Kaled Councilmen turned to the camera and spoke. "This ceremony was going to be held in the Thal Dome, and then in the Kaled Dome, and then in the Kaled Bunker complex. I wish I'd brought better shoes."

Councilman Mah looked down over the edge of the table with an expression that spoke of blisters. The watchers laughed, and someone whispered, "He's a natural."

"But instead, we held it in a place that has become the very symbol of this war. A place corrupt, and tainted, and piling death upon death to all those who have ventured into it. Because that is the place that we are here to change."

Mah and the Thal  Councillor stood up and turned around, and pushed against the plain white wall behind them. It fell.

Revealed behind them was the murky atmosphere and churned mud of the Wastelands, in all their desolations. The camera that had been showing the entire ceremony pulled back a bit, showing that the ceremony had all taken place on a tiny stage, set up somehow in the middle of the battlefield.

"These are the lands that we must restore for all the people." There was a burst of applause from the watchers, and Sarah looked around, expecting the Doctor to say something cutting and pessimistic. But there was no sign of his tall gangly form among the gathered Elite. She nudged Harry and asked, "Psst! Where's the Doctor?"

"I don't know, Sarah," Harry said. "Where would he go?"

"The main laboratory - the Time Ring."

Harry looked up at the screen, where Mah was starting what looked like a very long political speech, all about peace and rebuilding. From what he knew about political ceremonies, Harry could guess that everyone would get a turn: and while this would probably be enthralling to the Kaleds who after all knew all these people, it was something Harry would just as soon skip.

"Well come on old girl, let's go meet him," Harry said. Politely they drifted towards the back of the room, and then slipped out a side door into the deserted Bunker corridors.

 

* * *

 

Whiteout was what the Elite called Davros' times of withdrawal, when he thought so intensely and deeply that the exterior world was pushed aside as a bothersome distraction. When he pushed aside the environment around him, and went into a world of pure symbols - a world he preferred to the physical.

But what he felt now was the complete opposite. This was feeling, memory, sensation: this was real, the real world, being offered to him. This was the future, inevitable, unstoppable. He had to have it. Now!

"I could be free," he whispered finally. " I could do anything! If I wanted a thing done, I would no longer have to wheedle my inferiors to perform the task, endlessly supervising and correcting them. I could just do it! I could do everything! A body, a new body, and how could you hide this from me!"

Davros' fury was fierce as fire, and as fast. Security Liaison quickly replied, "We had to be certain that the transfer would work, that the mechanical taps already set into your brain would be enough to effect the personality transfer."

"You tested this?"

"Ferr was the test. You supervised the operations and implant to his central nervous system yourself; they are identical to your own. He passed the test. You can see him, talk to him! He will walk to you on his own two feet, look at you with his own two eyes, and tell you that it is true!"

Security Liaison was throbbing with excitement inside; this was literally what her entire life had been leading up to. "Be reborn with us, Davros. Be reborn with your planet at your feet, with all the Universe before you, within your grasp!"

Davros was swept away by her enthusiasm - for a fraction of a second. Then his logic took over again. "How do I know that you will not tamper with the specimen? With me?"

"You can test your new body using every tool, every sensor. Set all of the Elite to it, but we assure you, they will find it as we say it will be. A completely blank mind, waiting for you. A whole body. Your body."

Davros' mind flashed immediately to the information that had not been downloaded to him by Security Liaison; the strange holes in her knowledge. Perhaps it was knowledge that had not survived the irregular transfer from J29A, but perhaps they were really hiding information from him. Weapons, formulas, strategies. If he could directly access her mind, could access all of their minds, there was nothing that could be hidden from him. And - they knew the technique of transferring personalities as well. Why could he not use their power to create more of himself? If he was empowered to directly transmit himself into their bodies, surely his personality was stronger, surely his will would prevail over theirs!

"And now we ask the only question," Security Liaison whispered. Once she was certain she had his attention, she went on. "How much will you give us for this?"

Davros thought. It had been years since he had to exchange anything for something he wanted: he ordered that this piece of equipment be built, that this person be transferred to the Bunker, and it happened. But these Reflectionists, they already had everything, the Kaled people, Skaro itself if they wanted it. What could he offer them that would be worthy?

His first answer was spontaneous, "Not the Daleks! Never!"

"They are not yours to give, Davros. They are their own species. They will choose their allies." She shrugged. "We believe that they will choose us, will work with us - but it will be of their own free will."

Davros pivoted his chair away. Then he said, slowly, "You say in your councils that every Kaled is a treasure."

"We believe that," she said, not sure where he was going.

"A treasure is worthless until it is spent. I will give you - someone who has harmed you. Someone who has crippled your selves, all of them. Who cost you, and myself, the complete range of information that you should have had." He turned back. "You may speak of saving even the irredeemable, but I think you will not save this one, if he is no longer under the protection of my hand. I will give you the man who murdered J29A. Commander Nyder. To do with as you please."

She nodded, slowly.

 

* * *

 

The Doctor was almost at the main laboratory when somebody said "Psst!" behind him. He turned to see Sarah Jane and Harry trotting up the corridor towards him.

"What are you doing here?" he scowled.

"Same thing you are, getting the Time Ring back." She looked at the Doctor's torn expression, and said, "But there's something else, isn't there?"

"Yes, something else. I passed the armoury on the way here, it was unguarded. No weapons, but I found these." He displayed a bundle of material under his arm. "Plastic explosives, detonators. If I destroy the Dalek incubation room, they can be wiped out for all time."

Sarah Jane thought aloud, "A universe without the Daleks … but are you sure it's the right thing to do? These Reflectionists don't seem to think the Daleks should become conquerors."

"But there's no future mention of the Reflectionists and the Daleks as allies - which means that sometime in the near future, the Daleks will turn on the Reflectionists and exterminate them on Skaro."

"But what if," Sarah paused, "what if the Reflectionists aren't a part of Dalek history, yet. What if they are here to change things, just like you are?"

"Bit of a coincidence," said Harry  sceptically .

"I agree," said the Doctor. "I can't risk the Daleks having knowledge of the future. If they know the outcome of their wars, of their battles, now at the beginning - they would be invincible. They would take over the Universe as fast as they could build more of themselves. I can't trust the Reflectionists with that kind of power." They reached the door to the main laboratory together, and slipped inside.

The laboratory was empty - fortunately, it looked like everyone was watching the video of the Peace Accords signing, even the Reflectionists. Harry and the Doctor were ready to pry Ronson's desk apart, but it wasn't necessary: the first drawer they opened had the box with their possessions, which were quickly handed back around. The Doctor hurriedly slipped the broad copper cuff of the Time Ring onto his own arm, and rolled the sleeve down over it. The rest of his tools and knick-knacks were randomly stuffed into his trouser pockets.

The trio of travellers went to leave through another laboratory door. The Doctor glanced down as they passed Nyder's desk and said, "Hello, there's a new personality wheel here." He held up a darkly swirled and intricate transparency, and stared at it.

"Doctor, we really have to go," urged Sarah. "As soon as that ceremony ends, all the Kaled Elite will be coming back!"

"I wonder who this is?" Then he sighed. "It's Davros, it must be. And this," he scooped up another slide, bold with pink and green streaks, "is Security Liaison-"

He held the two transparencies to the light, back to back; looking up and over his shoulder, his companions could see that the colours overlaid one another in a neatly symmetrical pattern."

"Oh," said the Doctor softly. "I was wrong."

"Really?" asked Harry, and the Doctor shot him a sharp glance.

"Security Liaison isn't made for Nyder, she was made to complement Davros."

"What does that mean?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. But all I can think of is Security Liaison saying that they were here for Davros, mind, body and soul." said the Doctor. "There's no time to find out. I need to do what I came here to do."

He strode out of the laboratory, heading for the Dalek incubation chamber; Sarah Jane and Harry followed, quickly, but without his certainty.

 

* * *

 

There was an actual Kaled guard in the corridor to the incubation chamber, and the Doctor breathed a mental sigh of relief. Talking his way past a Dalek was stressful at the best of times. He put on his most endearing grin, and asked the guard, "Excuse me, but isn't this the way to the Dalek incubation chamber?"

"Yes?" asked the guard, a little puzzled. He had thought that everyone was watching the Peace Accords ceremony; he was only stuck here because Captain Tane had assigned him punishment duty. "Shouldn't you be-"

"No, it's quite all right. So, the chamber's right down there." The Doctor craned his neck to look, then turned back to the guard. "Thank you, that's what I needed to blow."

"Blow?"

"Up!" and the Doctor took the guard by the shoulder and neck in a peculiar grasp that quickly laid him out flat on the floor, unconscious.

At the doorway to the incubation chamber, the Doctor took out one of the reels of wire and started unwinding it, leaving a long length of it trailing on the floor. Through the door came the hideous squishing and burbling of the Daleks and their support equipment.

"I say, what do those things look like inside?" asked Harry.

"Trust me," said Sarah, "you don't want to know."

"Wait here," ordered the Doctor. "I'll only be a few minutes." He handed Harry the ends of the wires, and went inside the incubation room.

It was hot and steamy and fetid in the incubation room; the embryonic creatures writhed in their jars and tanks. Probably quite radioactive as well; he should get out as fast as he could. He reached to carefully tuck a bundle of explosives between two tanks, and the creature inside slapped itself against the glass. Although it had no eyes, the Doctor could feel it regarding him.

Then it made a noise.

"Ikki-ikki."

The Doctor leaned back, eyes wide. That was the noise that one of the Laboratory Assistants had made to the Dalek, during their first confrontation. And now the other embryos took up the cry; over their gurgling came the noise, "'Ikki-ikki-ikki-ikki." It sounded - curious? The Doctor ignored it.

Near the base of one of the environmental controls, the Doctor discovered a familiar looking pile of cloth. It was in fact his brown coat, which had been left behind in the Command Complex days ago. Several of the more mobile mutants were actually pawing at the thing with their tentacles, and he had to gently work it free of them. They squeaked "Ikki-ikki? Ikki-ikki?" in the most imploring way when he took it, and he looked at them with doubtful eyes. Then he finished placing the explosives. Paying out the wires behind him, he backed out of the incubation room.

The Doctor rejoined his companions, and handed Harry the coat. "Could you do me a  favour , Harry, and go through the pockets? The Daleks were playing with it."

"Ew. Reminds me of a cat once, which had kittens in the pocket of my greatcoat." Harry shook the coat out upside-down, but there were no little living surprises inside. "Why would the Daleks want a coat?"

"Taking your scent, maybe? Like a bloodhound," suggested Sarah Jane.

"The Daleks can sense atmospheric molecules, although it isn't exactly a sense of smell." The Doctor's large hands were deftly stripping the ends of the wire. When he was done, he just stood there, holding the two wires.

"Touch these together, and I destroy the Daleks forever. Destroy them for all time. But is it the right thing to do?"

"Why don't you just tell the Reflectionists what you know about the Daleks?" urged Sarah Jane. "Work with them to neutralise them as a threat."

"The Reflectionists will have taken everything I said straight from the Bunker computers, they're probably tapped into any internal surveillance equipment as well," said the Doctor, still staring at his wires. "If they are from the future, they must know what the Daleks will do, what they are capable of becoming. But they aren't stopping them! If anything, the Reflectionists are giving the Daleks more autonomy, more power. Can I risk the future on their good will, against the Daleks?"

"From what you say, Doctor, don't you have to destroy them?" asked Harry.

"But they will change the universe in so many ways, Harry. Good and bad ways. Many races will unite to fight the Daleks. Do I have the right to change history for billions of sentient beings in the future?"

"You've changed history before, Doctor," said Sarah. "If the good will outweigh the harm-"

"The ends justify the means, Sarah - that's what you mean. But genocide? Can I wipe out an entire intelligent species, destroy them forever?"

"I'll go make sure no one is coming," whispered Harry, going around the corner.

"Doctor, you have to decide." Sarah Jane was getting more frustrated. "Look, there isn't much time, I'm going to check the other way."

The Doctor stood alone in the corridor, staring at the wires. It seemed somehow more terrible than he could express, that he had only to touch these tiny wires together, and destroy his greatest enemies forever. Aloud to himself, he said, "Do I have the right?" The two wires trembled in his hands, so close to touching.


	20. Aftershocks

The Doctor stood and stared at the two wires, hearing nothing but the thunder of his own hearts in his ears. Here was the chance to destroy his greatest enemy, forever - but was it necessary? Was it right? Wouldn't he be just as ruthless and evil as the Daleks themselves if he was willing to destroy them as a species?

In the distance, he heard the faint sound of cheering. The Peace Accords ceremony must be over, the Elite would be filtering back into the Bunker. He had to choose. He had to decide.

There was another sound, closer. The sound someone might make desperately humming through their nose, if they could not speak. If they were-

The Doctor paused, then took two steps out into the corridor, and looked down it, past the entrance to the incubator room. There waited a squad of the Security Elite, and standing before them was one of the Laboratory Assistants, her arms crossed and eyes bright with interest. Harry and Sarah Jane were there as well, held by other guards who had their mouths covered, preventing them from warning the Doctor.

"Well?" the Laboratory Assistant asked. "Will you destroy them?" There was almost a smile on her lips, as though his actions either way would be nothing but amusing to her.

"No." The Doctor's voice was firm, but his body slumped a bit as he lowered his hands to his sides.

"No? Why not?" she asked.

"Because it's no use," said the Doctor, coiling up the wires in despair and then ripping them free. "Because all information has been backed up off-site, according to Gharman. Typical Reflectionist strategy. And that means all information, including the Daleks' genetic source codes, and their embryos. You must have some other incubation room tucked away."

"Clever." Then she spoke to the guards. "Take him!" The Doctor was tackled from behind, and he disappeared under a wave of black uniforms.

 

* * *

 

Gharman was sitting at his desk, excitedly deleting things from his project schedule to make room for a new series of decontamination tests, when Davros rolling up. He was holding a sheet of paper in his outstretched hand.

"Gharman, I require the Elite's full attention to the project outlined in this report," said Davros.

"But Davros, the Thal information-"

"Can wait. This project is to be initiated and completed at once. All necessary personnel are to be assigned to it, with maximum priority."

Gharman was ready to protest, but instead obediently bent his head and read the paper. When he looked up, his face was a startling contrast between a furrowed brow and broad smile.

"Davros," and then he was stuck for words. He swallowed, and said, "If it's true, I-"

"The tests must be as complete and thorough as possible. I expect only perfection from the Elite, and you have not failed me in the past. Do not fail me now. The specimen is being prepared for transport, see that the operating theatre is open." Davros spun and went on distribute his other orders. There was delicate machinery to be brought out of storage and calibrated; there were power safety-checks to be initialised. A surgical team to be put on alert and instructed by the Red Hexagon. And meetings that could not wait.

 

* * *

 

Councilman Than and the Doctor were standing in a dimly lit room in the Bunker.

They really didn't have any choice about standing; both were chained to rectangular metal frames by their wrists and ankles. There was an empty frame to the Doctor's right, with restraints already attached.

Than started struggling with his bonds again, futilely, and the Doctor said, "Save your strength."

"For what?" Than almost spat. "Do you know where we are?"

"Hmm ... not the cafeteria, probably not the art gallery either. Recreation perhaps?" guessed the captive Time Lord.

"This is the Bunker Interrogation Centre. All this equipment," Than jerked his head at the machines lining the walls, "is to extract the truth from prisoners, by drugs or by pain. There is equipment that can inflict the most terrible tortures while never breaking the skin - but that's not what these frames are for. This is for the Mechanicals series. It's very messy."

The Doctor looked around as well as he could, and said to himself, "Well, I suppose it would qualify as recreation for some people then." He wondered if this was where J29A had died – the first time.

Behind the two captive men, the sound of the door opening was combined with an 'OOF!' as though someone had just been kicked in the stomach. There was a dragging and a clattering, and the sounds of several men apparently fighting with someone, probably a prisoner. The people wrestling with their captive made quick commands to each other.

"Watch his feet!"

"Ah!"

Finally the prisoner was brought into view and pinned to the waiting frame by Security guards. The Doctor had been ominously afraid that it would be Harry, who was a dab hand with his fists and might not have gone along quietly to his cell with Sarah Jane. But instead it was the person he least expected to see as a fellow prisoner.

It was Security Commander Nyder. Somewhat the worse for wear – uniform rumpled, hair and glasses awry. His gun belt was missing. Bruises stood out bright on his neck, and the Doctor wondered what other marks might be hidden under his clothes. Nyder kept silently struggling until the manacles and ankle chains were in place, and then just stood in his bonds, panting through his clenched teeth. The guards left.

"What's happening out there?" asked the Doctor. Nyder was silent, ignoring him, lost in his own fury. The door behind the prisoners opened again, and there was a faint mechanical whine. The Doctor knew at least one of the beings that had just entered the room.

The Dalek came into view first, smoothly gliding into position facing the Doctor, on his left. Then Davros appeared, and Nyder lunged against his chains.

"Release me!" he snapped. Davros took no notice of Nyder's demand, and took his own place squarely in front of the Doctor.

"Davros?" asked Nyder, uncertainty creeping into his tone.

"The prisoners will be silent," ordered Davros, and Nyder leaned back in his chains. His expression was blank, but in his eyes was a hint of fear.

Davros' hand touched one of his switches, and the door opened again. Booted footsteps, light on the tiled floor, came closer, circling around the prisoners. And from the shadows, a woman with a familiar face emerged.

She wore a black Security uniform, with a red hexagon stitched on her collar instead of the eye-and-lightning insignia. A plain red armband was bright on one sleeve; she bore no other marks of rank. She came forward and reached for Nyder, and he drew his face aside as best he could in his bonds. Ignoring the motion, she carefully arranged Nyder's glasses straight upon his nose with her gloved fingers, then stepped back and stood at Davros' side.

Councilman Than's face was twisted with disgust, as was Nyder's. The sight of a woman wearing a Security Elite uniform was offensive; that it was one of the strange women who had just turned their society upside-down was full of unpleasant implications.

"Abomination!" hissed Than.

"Whatever she is, she isn't Security Liaison," said Nyder, taking what comfort he could from the thought. "I killed that one myself."

The woman looked at the prisoners coolly, then rolled up her sleeve and showed them the bandages underneath. Burn wound bandages, wrapping all the way up her forearm. She smiled thinly at Nyder's expression.

"My apologies, Commander," she said. "Never trust a neural reset switch that you haven't installed yourself. You should have broken my neck under your heel when you had the chance." Nyder snarled silently with rage; Security Liaison answered with the subtlest of sneers, as though to remind him how it was done.

Ignoring this interplay, Davros announced, "We will now begin this justice review. Councilman Than. You are guilty of the attempted assassination of the Kaled Supreme Commander, that is to say myself."

Nyder's eyes jumped to stare at Than with murderous intent. Security Liaison's eyes were just as cold.

Davros continued, "A full recording of the event was captured by Security Liaison, so there is no need for further questioning."

Than was sweating, lips trembling, too frightened to speak.

"There are certain questions that the Daleks have about the limits of the Kaled nervous system. Questions that they wish answered while directly monitoring the test subjects, as they were unable to do before they were mobile. Questions on endurance. Limits. Resilience."

"Pain," added the Dalek, in its mechanical rasp. "We have many questions about the limits of pain."

"And they require experimental subjects. Subjects that can be tested to destruction. Congratulations Councilman, your life and death will go to advance the cause of science. Have him taken to Laboratory Three."

As soon as the Security men appeared, Nyder tried to catch their attention – but they both looked away from their Commander. Than was blubbering without words as they dragged him out. The Doctor was rather hoping that the Dalek would leave too, but instead it stayed, its eyestalk focused on the two remaining prisoners.

The Doctor was getting a close-up look at criminal proceedings under Davros, and he didn't like what he saw. Than had attacked Davros, and therefore it seemed Davros had the authority to decide his punishment. The Doctor had been caught about to blow up the Dalek incubation room (leaving forever behind him whether or not he would actually have done it), so that probably meant that the Dalek would decide his fate. And Nyder?

"Ravon and Nyder are a separate case," said Davros.

Security Liaison drew herself up. "Two separate cases. General Ravon has suffered Level One brain injuries as the result of a gunshot at close range. We can stimulate the growth of neural tissues, but the personality that remains will never form a new whole. Unless those tissues are imprinted with a part of the Reflectionist pattern-matrix. With that, he may return to a self, but not the same self. General Ravon, as the person known as General Ravon: that man is dead."

She stared at Nyder, all her attention focused on him. "This man is not." Her voice was cool, but behind her back her hands clenched and writhed, expressing the emotions that her face hid.

Security Liaison and Nyder locked gazes. Hard. Then he snapped, "I have committed no crime and you have no right to treat me as a criminal! And I demand to face any charges in a military court!"

"You have no rights except as I give them," said Davros. "You are guilty, Commander, of editing an audio recording of a meeting of the Red Hexagon, then using that altered recording to deceive me into trying to destroy them. When Security Liaison tried to inform me of your treachery, you attacked her." Security Liaison ostentatiously touched the back of her bruised neck at those words. "You are furthermore guilty of launching an armed assault within the Bunker, on Bunker personnel, believing that you were attacking the Kaled and Thal Councils during a peace ceremony."

Nyder's eyes glazed with shock. "I was acting under your direct orders. You and I listened to the original recording together." He flung his words at Davros. "You ordered me to edit the recording, to attack her, to attack the Council! I was following your orders!"

"There are no records of my giving the orders-"

"You!" interrupted Nyder, shouting now at the stolid woman in front of him. "You were there!"

She blinked. "I can testify that I did not hear Davros specifically order you to attack the Peace Accords." Which was true, of course. "Fortunately, we had proactive security measures in place, that you were unaware of."

"It is your word against mine, Commander, and I am in command here." Davros rolled forward. "You are to be handed over to the Red Hexagon. They will decide the appropriate punishment for your betrayal, of them and of me."

"So that's why you didn't send the Daleks to wipe out the Council," Nyder said to Davros, slowly and with emphasis. "Deniability." He felt real fear for the first time, at the knowledge that he was not going to be rescued from his current predicament by Davros. Then rage, as he looked at the woman who had stepped into his shoes. Or boots. Perhaps literally, for all he knew.

"The first time I ever saw you," he said to Security Liaison. "You, the first of you, the one who was J29A. I saw you and I thought, How did she get in here? How have I failed Davros? And now I know," he concluded bitterly. "I failed when I let you live."

Security Liaison stepped closer yet, so that only the prisoners could see her face. Davros could lip-read almost as well as Nyder, but from this angle he could not see. She looked up at the Commander and mouthed silently, You never failed Davros. He failed you.

Nyder's own lips tightened, and he looked away. He missed the look of grief that washed up over her face and then retreated, but the Doctor did not. Her eyes met the Doctor's for a moment, and then dropped.

She stepped back one neat pace, and came to attention.

"Commander Nyder. We, the many and the one, have decided your punishment. I suggest you make peace with your heart, even if you can make no peace with us."

She reached out again, and touched the bruises on the side of Nyder's neck. This time he did not bother trying to flinch away. "Who did this?"

Nyder stared her in the eye and said, "Lonrie."

"Ah. Lonrie. Still upset over that little decontam procedure. Perhaps another one would reverse his upset." She tilted her head, and the Dalek's communication lights flickered; it must have been broadcasting to the Bunker communication system, because two guards entered the Interrogation Centre.

She told them, "Take the Commander back to his cell. Before you release him to my - to the Red Hexagon, let him rest and clean up. He shall not go to his fate like that." A sharp gesture encompassed Nyder's exhausted and generally dishevelled appearance.

Davros turned his chair away, not bothering to watch as Nyder was unchained and taken from the room. Once the door had closed behind them (Nyder looking over his shoulder at his former master, even at the last), Davros turned back and spoke.

"Doctor, your crime is against the Daleks. It amuses me that they will determine your fate."

The Dalek rolled closer, as though examining him. The Doctor stared back at his oldest enemy.

"The Doctor," the Dalek intoned. "An alien. You came here from another world to work in opposition to the Daleks and their creators. You have spoken against us. You have acted against us." The Dalek's gun twitched upwards, pointing at the Doctor's chest. "You have said that we shall become evil, that we shall leave Skaro and cross all space and then all time, to conquer and destroy. That we shall be cruel, ruthless, pitiless monsters."

The Doctor said grimly, "I have seen it."

"You believe there is a future where we shall destroy all rational life except for the Daleks."

"I believe that you would do it," the Doctor replied.

The Dalek went on, "The Reflectionists have given us some knowledge of that future, and theories on how to change that future. We require a cross-reference, to determine the validity of their information. You will tell us everything you know about the Daleks of the future. Everything must be revealed to us! If you do so, you and your companions will be free to leave this planet. If you do not give us the information we demand, we will consult with the Reflectionists on how we can extract the information from you."

The Doctor could imagine it: the neural network like cold tendrils eating through his brain, squeezing him open, letting them enter his mind directly and take his knowledge and personality. Or maybe they had a Reflectionist here who could directly absorb his knowledge psychically through that grotesque feeding known as telepathgestion. And what would happen to Sarah Jane and Harry?

"You will be taken to see your companions before you decide," said the Dalek, as though reading the Doctor's mind already. "Their welfare depends on your answer to our demands. Security Liaison, take him to them."

 

* * *

 

As the Doctor was shoved back into his cell (so far as he could tell, the same cell he had originally been imprisoned in), he was delighted to see Sarah Jane and Harry anxiously waiting for him. They reached out and caught him as he stumbled and turned.

Security Liaison paused at the door, snapped, "And this time stay put!" and threw something at the Doctor's head; he ducked and it passed over him, to strike the wall with a sharp clacking noise. The door slid closed, and Security Liaison was gone.

What she had thrown was stuck to the wall; it was small and red and - hexagonal, of course.

"A magnet?" asked Sarah Jane. The Doctor reached out to touch it and Sarah grabbed his arm and said, "No, don't move it!"

"Why not?"

"Don't you see, it looks like one of their lock buttons. And it's stuck to the wall of our cell, where we know there is a door out, somewhere. It's got to be some sort of a signal, a key to help us escape!"

"Hang on, now they want us to escape?" asked the totally confused Harry.

"Why else put us in this cell?" asked the Doctor, carefully feeling around the wall in the vicinity of the magnet. He pressed his palm flat against the red magnet, leaned - and with a muffled bonging noise, the wall of the cell folded backwards and revealed a smooth dark stone tunnel.

"Time we were going, I think," said the Doctor, ushering his two companions inside and closing the wall behind him.

"I say, that is tricky," said Harry admiringly, swinging his coat over his shoulders. The Doctor had already put his long brown coat back on, in preparation for the outside.

"We've got the Time Ring, why don't we just leave?" asked Sarah, moving down the dark passage. From the darkness, the Doctor answered.

"We need to warn the Thals about the Daleks. If they know in advance what a terrible threat they are, they can launch a pre-emptive strike, or insist on shutting down the Bunker as part of the peace process. The Thals are the universe's only chance!"

Once they were out into the caves, they moved slowly, feeling their way along the irregular floor with their feet. It was Harry who said "Shush!" at the sound of something moving ahead of them.

A hunched figure shuffled towards the bars covering the entrance, and moved them aside with a sweep of one arm. At a faint sound from the caves, the figure turned and stared back, and some angle of the light let the three escapees see his face.

"Sevrin?" asked Sarah.

"What?" said the Muto. "Who's there, how do you know me?" A white streak in the dark resolved into the smile of the Doctor, with his companions.

"Oh," he said, "I know you. You're the travellers. Are you leaving the Bunker too?"

"They let you in the Bunker?" said Harry, surprised; he had thought the anti-Muto sentiments he'd seen in the Dome would certainly be in effect in the Bunker as well.

"They, well, not the Kaleds, the Daughters, they did. They did this!" and he gleefully waved his heavily wrapped arm at them. At their blank looks, he undid the heavy cloth, revealing clean white bandages around his arm, and patches of bare skin between them.

"Look, it's fingers! And a thumb! My whole arm, it was all bone inside before, stretched out. I couldn't grip, could barely carry, it was next to useless. The Daughters operated on me, dissolved the bone somehow, I don't know. And sealed up my skin."

"Sonic disintegrators," said the Doctor, carefully turning Sevrin's new hand to the light. "The only surgical incisions necessary were to remove excess skin."

"It's wonderful!" Sevrin beamed. "A miracle!"

"Well, yes, yes it is Sevrin." The Doctor clapped him on the back as Sevrin re-wrapped his arm. "I'm glad for you, very glad, but I wonder if you could do me a favour? My companions and I have some very important information, necessary to the peace process, which we need to bring to the Thal government. Could you show us the way?"

"To the Thal Dome?" Sevrin frowned, then turned and stepped through the doorway of the cave outside. The travellers followed.

Outside, Sevrin stood in thought. "The Wastelands are terribly dangerous, especially at night. But right now, with all the machines being put out, the light things-"

"Particle fountains," said the Doctor.

"Yes, those frighten away the animals, and the other things. There are places along the edge of the Wastelands, that aren't so dangerous. The Daughters have been bringing food there, plus surplus tents and blankets. Most of my people have already left, so we shouldn't meet any other Mutos. And all the Kaleds and Thals are back at their Domes. So, yes, yes I could show you."

 

* * *

 

It was a journey they had taken before, but while the land was the same everything else had changed. They picked their way over the strangely silent battlefield, passing the remains of war machines and skirting blast craters ragged with shrapnel. It would have been impossible to travel in the dark, but the night was not dark: scattered here and there were the churning lights of particle fountains, merrily burning away radiation.

The paths themselves were occasionally marked along the edges with red stripes on the ground, and they could see that the green X's marking the land mines or dangerous routes glowed in the dark.

"Bioluminescent paint," murmured the Doctor, examining a rock daubed with the stuff before moving on.

The silence was broken on occasion by distant bangs, or the rumble of equipment, or high-pitched feminine laughter carried on the wind. They came across fresh holes in the landscape, where land mines were apparently being located and harmlessly (they hoped) detonated. At one point they all stopped, crouching in a trench as a series of figures in gas masks trotted by, long black hair swinging.

"UXB squad, I presume," said Harry.

They knew they were coming closer to the Thal lines when the fungus started to appear: great white splatters of the stuff, growing into puffy billows like earth-bound clouds. They could feel the heat coming off in waves, as it furiously converted ground soil contaminants into harmless elements. Some of the fungus puffs was crowned with great fibrous spirals, that the Doctor surmised were to spread fungus spores via the wind. The fungus mounds kept off of the path that Sevrin had chosen, fortunately; the black glittery powder sprinkled along both sides of the path might have something to do with that.

Finally, Sevrin stopped and drew them close. "This is as far as is safe," he said. "The Thals don't like having Mutos close to their city. If you follow this path, you should get past their sentry patrols and almost up to the Dome itself. I've heard there are paths underneath the Dome, tunnels, but I've never been in them."

"You've done us a great favour, Sevrin. Goodbye, and thank you for all your help." The Doctor and his companions moved on, following the rough path.

As they vanished into the gloom Sevrin stood looking after them. "Did I do the right thing?" he asked as though to himself.

"You did what we asked," said the figure that has just stepped to his side. He flinched and crouched, but rose up when the woman took off her gas mask and shook out her dark hair.

"Yes, we were watching you. You guided them safely. Thank you." She smiled and took his newly functional hand in a soft grip. "Come, the Daughters have cleared a new route to the settlements. It's much faster than the old way."

The two of them walked away, and the mists rolled in behind them.

* * *

 

In the Bunker, Security Liaison was walking down a corridor. Her posture, her manner, were an exact imitation of Nyder's. And if her eyes were a bit redder than was usual for an officer on duty, nobody dared to comment on it.

A concealed door opened in the wall as she passed, and a woman's voice said, "Esselle?"

She stopped.

"It is time, Esselle," the voice continued.

"I know," she said, and stepped into the doorway, which closed behind her. Leaving no sign that she had ever been there.

 

* * *

 

The travellers moved through the pre-dawn dimness, until they heard the sounds of voices. Then they headed towards them.

The Thal sentinels were anonymous figures bundled up in filthy military gear, helmets low over their faces. As the travellers came close, they heard one Thal say, "So the third recruit comes out and says, This gun's loaded with blanks, I had to beat her to death."

"Excuse me," said the Doctor, "could we get directions to the Thal Dome entrance, please?"

Without a word, the Thal pivoted, pointed his long rifle at the Doctor, and pulled the trigger. There was a click, but no bullet. Before they could even flinch in surprise, he reversed his grip, took the rifle by the barrel, and clubbed at the Doctor with the stock. The Time Lord jumped aside, and cried out as the blow was deflected painfully from his shoulder.

"Beat her to death," said the sentinel, moving forward smoothly, "beat her to death, beat her to death, beat her to death."

"Stop!" screamed Sarah, and the other Thal came for her, rifle raised as a club. Harry had jumped the Thal who was after the Doctor, but the soldier shrugged him off, ignoring his blows. He kept moving in a straight line after the retreating Doctor, striking again and again. Harry fought to stop him, futilely.

"Beat her to death," said the second Thal, aiming a blow at Sarah's head. She ducked, clawed at the ground, and flung a handful of mud into the guard's face, covering  his eyes . But he kept moving forward,  blindly chopping downwards at the ground in swift sweeps, the blows whistling through the air as he swung faster and faster. Sarah had to move backwards, crawling awkwardly, watching the blows sink deep into the mud as she twisted and avoided them.

The two Thals kept chanting as they attacked. "Beat her to death, beat her to death, beat her to death." Harry was down from a blow to the stomach, and the guards stood over the Doctor and Sarah, weapons raised to strike the deathblow.


	21. The Thals

"Stop! Disengage Code Proper-Storm!" came a woman's sharp voice out of the gloom, and the two guards stood motionless, weapons raised. Frozen like statues. Or like-

"Robots!" said the Doctor. He rose to his feet, dusting off his rather rumpled clothes. Sarah was helping Harry up.

"Yes," said the voice, and two people came into view. One of them, a man in a green Thal uniform, covered the travellers with his weapon. Sarah thought that she recognized the other person, a woman with short-cut hair. She certainly wasn't one of the Reflectionists.

"Aren't you one of the Thal Council?" Sarah asked.

The woman looked at her and frowned. "I'm the Undersecretary of War Education, Bettan," she introduced herself. Then she frowned again, this time at the guards. "I thought all these things were powered down and taken off the roster."

The Thal man replied, "There were some intrusions in this area. We put these out as a temporary fix. It seems," he moved and shoved one of the frozen figures, which toppled over stiffly, "that the radiation has scrambled their programming tapes. Again."

"Well, get them taken back for repairs, and this time, wipe all attack procedures out of them. An audible alarm will do." Bettan jerked her chin up, and addressed the three outlandishly dressed figures in front of her.

"How do you know me? You aren't Kaleds," she stated rather than asked. They certainly didn't look Kaled.

"Oh no, we're travellers," replied the Doctor. "I'm the Doctor, this is Harry Sullivan and Sarah Jane Smith. We have some very important information for the Thal Council. Very fortuitous, our meeting you here. Can you take us to the Council?"

"What is the information?" When the Doctor hesitated, she went on in ironic tones. "You can't expect me to bring everyone who wanders out of the Wastelands with a mysterious message before the Thal Council, after all."

"It's about Davros. We've just, ah, left the Kaled Bunker where his work is hidden. He has an invention, a creation of his actually, of almost limitless power for destruction. I must be allowed to tell what I know to the Thal Council, so that they can make an informed decision about it as part of the peace process."

The man with Bettan looked interested, very interested. Bettan noticed his interest, and said, "Seph, we will escort these pri-, these people to the Dome. Where they can be questioned in private." Then she came close to the Doctor, and absolutely hissed, "And don't say anything in front of him!" Her head jerked to indicate Seph, who frowned.

"We still have a patrol to complete," he objected.

"Fine," said Bettan exasperatedly. She moved and pulled a hand weapon from Seph's belt, and pointed it at the travellers. "You complete the patrol, I'll escort the prisoners."

Seph looked ready to disagree, but moved off into the dimness instead. Bettan gestured sharply, and the three travellers fell in before her, walking to the Thal Dome, which loomed vaguely overhead, too big to see all at once.

"What's a member of the Thal Council doing on an outside patrol?" asked the Doctor, curious.

"All must serve," she said, and nothing more. She didn't have to: the Doctor could fill in the rest. A society where anyone could be called on at any moment to take up war duties. And if they didn't suffer from the lack of women that the Kaleds did, presumably men and women must fight on the battlefield.

They got to the Dome, and Bettan's presence got them through the entrance. Soon they were walking through an endless maze of corridors, bleak and utilitarian.

"Why didn't you want me saying anything in front of that fellow Seph?" asked the Doctor, and Bettan paused to reply.

"Too many Thals don't seem to be taking the end of the war to heart, unfortunately, and Seph is one of them. Asking for extra patrol duties, hanging around the armoury. I have a feeling that Seph is going to be a problem. I don't like the feel of his mind. And he talks too much."

"I say, look at this!" said Harry and the others turned. He was peering through a window set in a corridor door. "There's a really tremendous rocket in there!"

"An abandoned project," said Bettan with a wave of her weapon. "Useless now, not even capable of a suborbital lift. Now, I think I know where I can put you until the Council can be gathered."

They went down four more corridors, up three levels in a lift that shuddered frighteningly under their feet, and into a medium-sized room lined with chairs. In one of the chairs sat a dark-haired man, who looked at them with an expression of wide-eyed interest. He looked strangely familiar, and his uniform marked him as a Kaled soldier.

"Don't I know you?" asked Sarah, frowning.

"Captain Talt, isn't it?" said the Doctor. The man looked like the soldier who had captured Sarah and the Doctor in the Kaled Command  Centre complex only a few days ago. A few days that seemed an age, even for a Time Lord.

The man beamed. "Yes, I'm Talt. Do I know you?"

The Doctor was confused. "What, don't you know if you know us?"

"No, actually," said the soldier cheerily. "I've forgotten everything. I don't even remember being a Captain anymore. But I feel wonderful, much better than I felt before. I think."

"Forgotten how?" asked Harry. "Amnesia?"

Sarah swallowed. "Don't you remember, Kavell saying that the Thals had developed a bomb that erased memories, erased minds?"

"I do," said the Doctor, looked at Talt with a horrified expression. "And this must be the result."

Talt waved his hands from side to side in a reassuring gesture. "I don't mind, really. I volunteered."

"How can you remember volunteering?" Sarah asked practically.

Talt stood up. "Look here," he said eagerly, moving to a vidscreen on the wall, "there's a something here, a, a, a string?"

"A tape?" suggested Sarah.

He beamed at her. "Yes, a tape of what I said. I push this button here," and he pushed it, then pulled over a chair and sat and watched with an expression of childish delight. The travellers gathered around him, and watched as well.

The screen came alight with the face of Captain Talt, looking considerably more muddy and miserable than he did now. "Talt, Captain, 08091123," he said.

A voice spoke from off the screen, a pleasant male voice. "Captain Talt."

The prisoner said again, "Talt, Captain, 08091123." He seemed broken, exhausted, too dispirited to say anything else. The Talt sitting beside Sarah leaned over and whispered. "I look so sad."

"Are you unwell?" the voice on the recording asked. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Talt…yes, yes I understand what I am saying." He blinked at the camera. "What are you going to do with me, Thal?"

"We would like to invite you to volunteer for an experiment."

"Oh yes, of course! Volunteer! And I suppose if I don't, you'll torture me to death! Or torture my men! I know you Thals!" On the screen, Talt crossed his arms over his chest, and snapped, "Talt, Captain, 08091123!" as though every word was a curse.

"If you don't, we will let you go."

Talt narrowed his eyes. "What sort of an experiment d'you think I would volunteer for, rather than be let go?"

"It is a test of a device which resets higher level neural pathways, while maintaining personality integrity."

"What does that mean?" he frowned.

"It will erase your memory. You will forget the war, everything that you did and was done to you. You will forget your training. But you will remember your language, your name, your self."

The Kaled just sat there, unbelieving. Then he whispered, "With a weapon like that, you'll destroy us all!"

"No," corrected the male voice. "The Kaleds have a different, but equally powerful weapon. There is going to be peace."

"Peace?" Talt drew his hand over her forehead, then sat back in his chair. "And after I forget everything, then what?"

"Then we will bring you back to the Kaleds, of course."

"To forget it all," Talt stared at the floor. "Forget everything I've seen…if I forget my training, that means I can't be a soldier anymore, right?" He slumped. "But they could retrain me. I don't think I could go through that again," he shuddered.

"The war is almost over. They will not retrain you as a soldier; why should they?"

"Forget my friends…but I barely had any." Talt went on, "Forget the war. You are certain, I'll forget the war, all of it?"

"You will absolutely forget the last ten years," said the Thal voice reassuringly.

"Start over. I could, I could start over!" and Talt weakly smiled, as though unused to it.

"You can start over. Or you can leave, right now. What do you choose?"

On the recording, Talt sat silently. Then he said, all in a rush, "I choose the experiment."

"You are certain?"

"Yes, please for the gods' sake, do it now before I lose my nerve and can't do it!" Talt was almost panting.

"Third time, you consent to this memory erasure experiment? To be exposed to the telepathy bomb?"

"I, Talt, Captain, 08091123, consent." There was an expression of hope in his eyes that was mirrored in the expression of the man watching himself.

There was a break in the recording, and then the watchers saw Talt sit back down. He had a broad beaming smile on his face now, and he looked into the camera with an expression of wide-eyed curiosity.

"What is that?" he asked.

A woman's voice replied, "It is a camera; it records sounds and images, and lets you look at the them later. Tell me, what is your name?"

"Talt," he said.

"And that's all?"

"Yes, just…just Talt. Can I see what the camera sees?"

"Of course," and Talt got up and moved out of frame. A woman sat down in the chair where he had been, a woman with long blond hair.

"Can you see?" she asked.

"Yes!" he answered, and she smiled.

The screen went blank, and Talt turned to Sarah. "See? I did volunteer. It's just like I said." Then he looked back, as the screen lit up by itself. A Thal man appeared on it, and said, "This is an unencrypted broadcast from the Kaleds."

"I wonder what it is?" asked Harry. The screen changed, to show a room filled with unfamiliar equipment and familiar people.

"This must be from the Bunker. There's Gharman, and Ronson. It looks like a surgery. Who are the surgeons?" wondered the Doctor, looking at the people huddled around an operating table of some sort. One of them tucked a lock of long hair away under a surgical cap, and he said, "The Reflectionists, of course." The room was thick with Security guards as well.

"What's a Reflectionist?" asked Talt, curious. "What are they doing there?"

"No sign of Security Liaison," said the Doctor, shushing Talt with a gesture. Talt shushed.

"What do you think is happening, Doctor?" asked Sarah.

"Look at the wall behind them." There were two viewscreens side by side; the one on the left showed a blizzard of spiking electrical lines, the one on the right was a single flat line.

"Those are brainwave patterns, I think," said the Doctor. The camera moved, and focused on Gharman talking to a young man in a dark blue military uniform that reminded the watchers of General Ravon's.

The man in blue turned and addressed the camera. "People of Skaro, I am General Ferr. As the Kaled people know, I was incapacitated during the Battle of Ges Plateau, six years ago. My body was damaged beyond repair, kept alive only by machinery. Now, thanks to Kaled technology, my mind has been moved into a new, young body."

He turned his head and smiled in the direction of the operating table. "And now, that technology is going to give a new life to its creator."

"There's Davros!" said Sarah, pointing at the hunched figure at one end of the operating table. "But what's that around his head?"

It was a cloud of metal tendrils, which seemed to be embedded into his neck and shoulders and the supportive harness that enclosed his head. The tendrils led into cables that snaked over the operating table, where a figure lay under a sheet.

"The neural transmission array, they've implanted it in Davros. Of course! His mind already had mechanical taps into it, so there would be no risk of fragmentation along the connective surfaces," the Doctor thought aloud.

The watchers sat, mesmerised, as the activity in the operating room sped up. Tools were handed back and forth, readings taken on strange instruments, low words exchanged between the surgeons, and everything  centred on Davros and the figure under the sheet. The end of the sheet had been moved back now, and there were brief glimpses of a dark-haired man lying there, seemingly unconscious. The Elite stood by, their faces tight with tension; Ronson's hands were knotted against his chest as he swayed back and forth. Everything was ready; all the activity was working towards some peak. And then-

 

* * *

Davros opened his eyes.

He opened his eyes! He had eyes again! He could see a fuzzy grey that resolved into the ceiling of the laboratory. He sat up and - he could sit up again!

Gharman and Ronson were beside the table, grinning. Behind them were the surgically masked and gowned figures of what could only be the Daughters. One of them spoke - and Davros could hear plainly, not with electronic diaphragms and nerve stimulators but with his own ears again! - she spoke and said, "Welcome back."

Davros reached out, with two hands, and let them help him off the table. His feet felt incredibly raw and tender against the ground, but he didn't care: he had feet again! Toes, knees, hips, everything! The air in the room seemed to quiver against his skin, and he could feel his loose medical garb brushing against his flesh. He breathed in and it was the first time in too, too long that he could remember inhaling and not feeling the rasp of artificial valves opening and closing in his chest.

He was alive! He looked at his hands, young hands, two hands, two wonderful hands, and rubbed them together. He looked up; Gharman handed him a mirror, still grinning. He blinked; he could see everything about Gharman now, eyebrows, lines of his face, everything! Not just a machine-processed simulation of him.

Davros stuttered, "That's…thank you", hearing his normal voice in his own ears again, and looked into the mirror.

Looking back was a man that he barely remembered: the man that he had been before an explosion ripped him in half and yet cruelly left him alive. High cheekbones, a mop of dark hair rough-cut around the electrodes still fastened to his scalp, dark eyes staring with extreme puzzlement - and then dawning joy. He touched his face with his hand, to see the reflection move as well, to reassure himself that this was real.

He put down the mirror and turned, supporting himself on the table to see - himself.

It was the support chair that had carried the remains of his physical body for so long, and it was covered with a sheet. Under that sheet, he could just see the curve of what must be his own head, his old head. The chair's occupant was not moving, and Davros looked at the surgeons. One of them spoke.

"The transfer has completed. And you have deliberately withdrawn yourself from your old body."

General Ferr nodded. "It happened that way with me too, Davros. Like peeling off some hideous crust."

Davros looked up at the vidscreens. The right-hand one, still getting its data from the cables that trailed around him, was a tangle of brainwaves. But the one on the left was blank, a single flat line stretching across it. He looked at the figure under the sheet, then flicked his eyes to the watching surgeons.

One of them said, "If you want to wait for more tests, we can confirm for you that there is no remaining neural activity within that body that was once yours. Only the support chair is keeping him, it, alive."

"That will not be necessary." Davros raked his fingers through his hair, delighting in the drag of all ten nails against his scalp, and the cables fell in a clattering coil around him. Both screens on the wall went blank. He went to – that which was no longer himself, his empty body, his husk – and reached under the sheet, feeling along the row of switches, carefully avoiding touching the body's limp hand. The controls were backwards to him, but still he found the power switch.

He whispered, "I do not die. This dies," and pressed the switch. There was a shaking, a shuddering under the sheet, a last fight of a mindless body to survive. An alarm wildly shrilled and then wound down to silence. The movement stopped, and the body slumped forward as far as the chair could allow it. Davros stepped backwards, and gestured for the body to be taken away.

He turned to the camera, and breathed. Just breathed in and out, in pure happiness. "My people," he said, addressing the Kaleds who must be watching this all through the Dome. "I am alive, and the war is over. We are alive, and we have ended this war. And I swear, I shall lead you in peace as well as, no better, than I ever did in war. Together we will go forward and create a Skaro greater than we have ever imagined." He had thought of speeches, so many speeches he could make. And now there was time, he exulted inside, time to make them all! His mind was so bubbling over with the euphoria of rebirth that he could barely remember how to speak.

Then his attention was drawn to another matter.

"And what is our part in your future?" said one of the surgeons, pulling down her mask. She looked at Davros with a level expression.

Davros felt the temptation, he did not deny it. He could denounce these women, these alien Reflectionists, these invaders, right here and now. His men would tear them apart; his people would rise up and destroy them all at his word. He had his new body; there was nothing they could do to him now. He had power, he should use it! But something inside of him paused. Was it not better to be so powerful that there was no need to demonstrate it in some vulgar display? To show some reserve, some restraint?

No, better to wait. To see what power he could draw on, now that he could link to the Reflectionists mind to mind. But for now, he had to give a public answer. Mindful of the camera, he reached out and drew the surgeon closer, and looked her gravely in the eye.

"You are not the Daughters of Davros," he said. "You are the Daughters of all the Kaled people, of all of Skaro. And together, everything will be changed." He turned his face back to the cameras, and behind him the Daughter winked subtly. Then the screen went dark.

 

* * *

Talt clapped his hands together unreservedly, eyes wet with happiness. "Oh, that's wonderful, that's a miracle!"

"Yes," said Bettan, entering the room unexpectedly. "I was watching from outside. The Council is gathered now, Doctor, and you will be allowed to give your information."

"Excellent!" said the Doctor, rising to his feet. His companions rose as well, and Talt looked uncertain for a moment.

"Should I come too?" he asked.

"No," said Bettan. "There's a survey team heading for the pass in two hours, they've agreed to escort you through the mountains and into Kaled territory. Once you are there, you can contact your people and go home."

 

* * *

The Doctor and his companions were taken to where the Thal Council was gathered, a room surrounded by control panels and strange pieces of alien machinery. But the Thal men and women in attendance were familiar from the Peace Accords broadcast. They were excitingly discussing the broadcast of Davros' resurrection.

"Should we bargain with the Kaleds for this technology?" asked one of them.

"No," said the man who seemed to be the Council Leader, an older gentleman with a sharp face and white hair. "That will not be necessary. We have no soldiers in that condition. It is not an urgent matter."

"My matter is urgent," said the Doctor, and the Council members turned to him.

Bettan stepped forward. "This man says that he has information on Davros that is of crucial importance to us."

"Important to you and to the future - and not only the future of Skaro, but that of many worlds," said the Doctor, and the Council stirred and looked at once another. He went on, "What I am about to tell you may seem fantastic, but it is of crucial importance to yourselves and to your people. You must listen to me." The Doctor went on, to discuss in passionate terms the powers and the future potential of the Daleks. The Council listened, their faces grave. Harry and Sarah watched the Council, and both of them felt a nagging sensation.

Harry had the strangest feeling that he had met one of the people in this room before. Not one of the Council members, but maybe one of the others who waited here, secretaries or whatever they were. There was something familiar about them, or about one of them, but he couldn't put his finger on which it was.

Sarah was looking at the alien equipment that lined the walls, and trying to figure out why she thought she had seen some of it before. Same technology base, same planet, of course she shouldn't be surprised that some bits would be the same for both races. But there was some specific thing in here, that she felt she had seen before, but she couldn't remember where, or when.

The Doctor reached the end of his speech, and looked expectantly at the Thals.

"We will have to discuss your information, Doctor, before we can decide how to proceed," said the Council Leader firmly.

"That's all I ask," said the Doctor.

As the Council gathered at one end of the room and talked amongst themselves, a few of the Council hanger-ons drifted over and looked at the strangers. Harry looked at them, at one of them, and suddenly felt his heart drop into his shoes.

"Doctor," said Harry, nudging with an elbow, "I think we've seen her face before, don't you?"

The Doctor stared at the woman, and realised that he did know her. Everything about her face was instantly recognisable, except for her long fall of blond hair. Her brows and lashes were still dark though, and her sharp-nosed, pale profile was unpleasantly familiar.

The Red Hexagon woman with the blond hair smiled at them, and said, "I was wondering when you would notice."

"The Reflectionists. Here? How?" snapped the Doctor, and the woman took a step back.

"As soon as there were enough of us, six 'escaped' over to the Thal side, with 'stolen' technology from Davros. One of us," she paused and sighed, "one of us died in the crossing, and we shall remember her, but five Kaled women were enough of an oddity to get the Thal Council involved. And once the five of us were given enough resources, and a spot of hair dye to help us blend in," she tugged at a strand of her hair, "we of course started creating more Thals."

"Such as myself," said the strikingly handsome blond man who came to stand at the Reflectionist woman's side. "There is no need for us all to be female, or all to look alike, here. We are genetically pure Thals now."

"I don't believe we've been introduced?" said the Doctor, feeling a bit faint.

"My apologies. This," he indicated the woman at his side, "is Third Originator called Thior. I would guess that you have had contact with the Thals in the future?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, blinking, wondering why all of a sudden he felt both sleepy and soothed.

"Well then. You will not be surprised to know that I am Thirty-Fourth Telepath, called Thifote," he said, and turned on the charm. Literally.

All three travellers felt it: warmth, soothing relaxation that seemed to seep into their minds. A sudden desire to relax, to trust. Sarah Jane and Harry subtly leaned towards each other, their faces filled with happy languor. "Stop!" said the Doctor, fighting the alien impulses, his teeth grinding with effort.

The irrational feeling receded. "Of course," said Thifote, as the strangers jerked themselves back to attention. "That was merely a demonstration. The Reflectionists will have no problem in working with this society in harmony."

"Or dominating it entirely, as you please." The Doctor felt blank horror, realising that the Thals around him had let the Reflectionists into their society, even as the Kaleds had, and that they were now-

"Their helpless slaves?" said Thifote, completing the Doctor's thought. His eyes were sharp, and his mind just as sharp it seemed. "Never. We are much too fond of the Thals to treat them so badly. We are Thals now, Doctor. We are them, and they are us."

Thior stepped forward; she had been enjoying watching Thifote at work. "We are here for all the races of Skaro. The Thals are worth saving: no race that could survive a thousand years of war is to be taken lightly."

The  Councillors were still talking amongst themselves, and the Doctor looked at them in anguish. How to convince them that there was another threat, besides the Daleks, and even closer to them! If only he had told them about the Reflectionists! But that had seemed too wild a premise. The Daleks had seemed much more of an immediate threat.

Then one of the pieces of equipment behind the  Councillors began to move. It moved out from behind the panel that had obscured it, and spun, pointing its eyestalk at the people gathered in the room.

"Oh no," said Harry. All three of them backed away from the Dalek as it advanced towards them. The Thals barely looked alarmed, casually moving aside to give the intruder room to move. Sarah wanted to scream at them that they were in danger, terrible danger, from this thing. But instead she looked at the Dalek, and noticed something.

"There's something different, Doctor. It's not like the others," said Sarah. The shape of this Dalek's base was somehow different, cruder almost.

"An older model, I think," said the Doctor, still backing away. "Look, it's running off an electrical charge," he ran out of backing-up space, and continued while pressing himself to the wall, "an electrical charge running through the floor. Stop!"

The Dalek stopped.

"Our mechanical components are based on prototypes which Davros constructed in the ruins of the Kaled capital city," said the Dalek in the resonating tones they all knew so well. "We anticipate the upgrading of our outer carapaces in the near future. Once the Thal populace has accepted the peace, we shall return to the Bunker."

"The Daleks are, so to speak, on loan to us," said the Council Leader, coming up behind the Dalek. "Without their help it would have been impossible to control the returning soldiers. And the Daleks have already shared with us their plans for the future of their species."

"Their plans? Their plans are to kill, to exterminate, and to destroy all life in their path! Either that, or to mutate your people into Daleks!" the Doctor snapped.

The Leader gave a little laugh. "What an imagination you have, Doctor! But we never saw a future in which the Thals would become so mutated as to require travel machines. We've always had excellent anti-radiation drugs. Now with the particle fountains and decontamination fungi, even those will not be necessary." The Leader smiled. "Once we have surveyed the mountain passes and sealed them, we can concentrate on the healing of our own people. On building a future for ourselves, apart from war."

The Doctor's eyes swept over the  Thals , and then dropped. None of them looked sympathetic, and how could they? There was a Reflectionist telepath here in the room with them, and a Dalek, and they had already been told what the Daleks were to be – in the Reflectionists' opinion, at least.

It was too late. It was not the truth that mattered, here and now: it was who gotten here with their story, first. The Reflectionists had beaten him. They had taken over the Kaleds, then the Daleks, and now the Thals. It was too late.

"I am sorry, Doctor, but your information has not convinced us," said the Leader. "It is our opinion that the Daleks are not a threat. With our new weapons, we can prevent the Kaleds from even aggressing against us again. We look forward to a new era for the Thal people, where we can concentrate on exploring the world of the mind, of pure thought. It is all that we have ever wanted. And if you don't mind," his voice cooled further, " we should like to explore it on our own."

The Doctor looked at the Reflectionist beside him with barely suppressed fury; she looked back innocently. Then the Doctor's shoulders slumped in defeat. "All right, we'll go then," he said. "Come on Sarah, Harry." As the travellers were heading for the door, dismissed, Bettan stopped them.

"One of them gave me a message," Bettan said. Her gesture indicated Thifote, now across the room and talking to the Council Leader. "Oh yes, Doctor," she said at his expression of surprise at the word 'them', "we know that they are more than just some experimental creation of Davros'. Do you think that telepaths would hide that from us? The message is that someone is waiting for you at the second distance marker outside of the Thal Dome. It's a stone pillar about ten thousand paces straight away from the main exit. You can't miss it. And also, that you will find it difficult to leave Skaro, until you meet with that someone."

The Doctor's hand strayed to his sleeve. As soon as they were out of Bettan's sight in the corridor, he slipped the Time Ring off his arm, examined it, and found a thin paper label on the inside. In his haste to get the Ring back, he must have overlooked it. Now, he peeled the label off and looked at it closely.

"Is that French?" asked Sarah, peering at the label and the neat line of script across it.

"It is," said the Doctor gloomily. "It says, Ceci n'est pas un anneau de temps, or, this is not a Time Ring."


	22. Fate

Outside the Thal city were people: raking the soil, taking readings with strange instruments, disassembling a wrecked vehicle for its components. Most seemed to be Thals, but some might have been Mutos, bundled in their layers of shabby grey robes. They watched as the aliens walked past, with indifferent or even hostile gazes. All three of them felt much better when they got away from the Dome, even though the landscape grew bleaker. There were no fungus around here, no plants: nothing but grey, burnt, and poisoned earth.

The Doctor walked with his head down, kicking at the clods of ash in passing. Sarah Jane felt the way he looked. Frustrated and defeated.

"Missile?" she said hopefully, at one point.

"Target," he said glumly, and went on.

Harry, who had been trailing gamely enough along behind them, couldn't make out what that cryptic exchange had meant. "What?" he asked.

Sarah explained. "I said Missile?, meaning, should we go see if we can take control of the Thal missile, and the Doctor said Target?, meaning where do we aim it once we have it? The Daleks and the Reflectionists, they're all over the place. There's no one target."

Harry thought this over, as the three of them negotiated a particularly rocky bit of path. "You got all that out of two words?" he said.

"Yes," said the Doctor. Then he pointed, and the three of them could see their destination ahead.

It was a stone pillar as thick around as the Doctor's chest, and half again his height. Atop it sat a figure in dark robes, as still as though it had grown there. Only a bit of wind fluttering its clothing showed that the figure was not also carved out of stone.

"Well? Are you satisfied with yourself?" the Doctor half-shouted as they approached the pillar. "Sending me here for nothing!"

"Is that a Time Lord?" asked Sarah, full of curiosity.

"No," said the figure, in a much too familiar voice. The hood was pushed back, and a solemn Reflectionist face looked down at them. The dark hair spilling over her shoulder marked her as one of the Kaled Reflectionists.

"Security Liaison, is that you? You're wearing a Security uniform," noted Sarah.

The woman on the pillar shrugged, and fingered her black sleeve. "There have been so many boy soldiers, there's uniforms available that fit. As you know." Sarah looked down a bit ruefully at her own borrowed clothes, wondering what Kaled youth they had originally been made for. Then she looked back, and caught the look of anguish on the other woman's face. Not just anguish, but agony.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asked.

"Wrong?" said Security Liaison. "Nothing is wrong. I am here to see you on your way, is all. To bring word to Davros that those who have sought to overthrow him have left. And to tell the Daleks that they can stop hunting you." She paused and smiled a tiny, pained smile. "The Daleks can be quite charmingly stubborn, you know."

"Stubborn?" said the Doctor incredulously. "The most vicious, monomaniacal creatures known through time and space, and you just call them stubborn?"

The Reflectionist woman tilted her head. "Their genes are very vicious, true. But the Kaled Elite handled their in vitro development with very little precision, it was no problem on our part to tamper with their chemical balances, causing some genes to become dominant, and some recessive. And then there's environment."

"Environment? For a Dalek?"

"Well yes, for the little ones. They're almost cute before they get put into their shells. We would take turns, because of the radiation exposure, going into the incubation room and playing with them. Sweet little things, all tentacles and ooze. We would give them little hobbyhorse rides on our feet, they loved that. They could spend hours bouncing up and down squeaking 'ikki-ikki-ikki'." Her shoulders slumped. "They never would let me do it though."

"So you help us escape the Bunker, and now we leave, is that the plan? But what if we don't want to go?" asked the Doctor.

"You do want to go." Security Liaison swayed on her pillar, then caught her balance. "After all you have seen here, how can you not want to go? These are hard times coming on Skaro: a race between technology and starvation, our calculations versus the winter cold. It will not be easy. It is not for dilettantes who aspire only to meddle and then dash away. Would any of you have the courage, the honour, to stay?"

Her hand lashed out, pointing. "Doctor Sullivan. Would you stay? We can offer you a lifetime of medical work."

Harry shivered. "A lifetime of work…no, I can't. I," he paused and frowned: his doctor's eyes had picked up something wrong in the Reflectionist woman's tottering. "I say, you aren't wounded yourself, are you?"

"No. And yes." She stopped and drew a deep breath. "I feel the pain that I was made for."

"The pain that you were made for." The Doctor paused, considering. "You were made for Davros, at least according to the personality wheel. Made for him. Mind, body and soul."

"My mind was stimulated in the tanks, extra growth promoted so that I would have a chance of keeping up with him. And sometimes I could, almost. My body," she ran her left hand up her right arm, "is a slightly undersized clone of Davros', with a chromosome flip to make me female. This body was created to provide spare parts for Davros. Which is why I could never go into the incubation room, or leave the Bunker: the danger of radiation damaging my organs that would be Davros' organs, in an emergency. But that is not why I suffer."

She took another deep breath. "I suffer now because I have bisected my soul, with considerable help from my sisters, and moved half of it into Davros' empty body, before the neural transfer. Because he does not believe in a soul, he and his Elite could not test for it. It is something that his instrumentation would never detect. All this time of being near Davros, following him, learning his moods and studying the wasteland where his soul should be: all of this was to change me, change my own soul. The soul graft must take without rejection, because when a body rejects its soul," she shuddered visibly even through the robe, "it is…unspeakable."

"How could Davros lose his soul?" asked Harry, wide-eyed at the thought.

"In the accident, some say sabotage, that made him the half a man he was - how else? He died in that accident. Died several times, in fact. Science and will brought him back - but not all of him. His body was so damaged that his soul fled, and could not return. Rather like trying to fit ten units of grain into a bag that only holds five."

"Does that mean that you have no soul?" asked Sarah, the last words rushing out. It was a horrific idea.

"No, I still have half. It will regrow, and hopefully I can nurse it along to make it a somewhat nicer soul. Davros seems to have taken to his new body smoothly enough, and he is already showing some shreds of decency within him, at least according to the audio portion of the broadcast I heard." Her head swayed as though she was too tired to nod properly. "I shall work with him, work to help heal and grow his soul. That is the only reason why I live."

"Of course. Nyder," said the Doctor. "Your people have decided to execute him, and you can't live without him." Sarah's breath hitched a bit at the Doctor's callous tone.

"Oh, I can live. I just will not enjoy it very much. I begged my sisters to give me work, rather than rest. Work will help dilute my pain." She gave a rueful grin. "Perhaps I should assign myself to the Homecoming Committee. The quest to find a new, whole copy of the Reflection pattern will be infinitely tedious and intense, the sort of thing that I could use to distract myself indefinitely."

"So there are other copies of your mind floating around out there?" said Harry, gesturing to the sky. "And you want to find, er, catch one?" These Reflectionists were the queerest lot of aliens that he'd ever seen - not that he'd seen all that many.

"Yes, Doctor Sullivan. But space is very large, and Skaro small. We can build attractors, set out bait as it were, but the labour required to build a proper antennae for a Reflection-focus is beyond us at this time. Perhaps in a few generations…"

"Too bad you can't use a Dome as an antenna," said Harry.

"What?" asked Security Liaison, lowering her eyebrows.

"Well, they sort of look like one of those big dish antennas, doesn't they? But they're not pointing up, so … maybe it's not a good idea."

With a swoosh of robes, Security Liaison was on the ground. "Harry Sullivan is a genius!" she exclaimed, and soundly bussed him on the mouth. Sarah Jane swallowed a laugh of surprise, and the Doctor looked very nonplussed.

"Well!" Harry said, startled, after she released him. She scuttled backwards and leaped up on the pillar with the disturbing fluidity of a cat. But now her face was alight, animated.

"We could! The planet is completely transparent to a Reflection energy shell; the orientation of the antenna does not matter! We could use the Domes themselves as a focus, and capture a pure copy of our original print! And with that we can…we can…" She looked down at the Doctor and smiled in awe. "We can do anything! Anything," she said, and her smile was suddenly glittering with menace. For a brief instant, Sarah thought that was what Nyder's smile might have looked like - if she had ever seen the man give a proper smile.

"It's no coincidence that the Reflectionists came to Skaro at this time, is it? To the very genesis of the Daleks. How did you find it, this exact moment in time and space?" asked the Doctor.

She turned her burning eyes on him. "We followed you, of course! The diversion of your transmat beam sent a trail blazing through half the galactic arm; if it hadn't been shifting in time as well as space, there would been a dozen races sniffing around here, trying to see what was so important. But they lost the trail in time, and in the shoals of cosmic dust."

"So," the Doctor cocked his head in thought, "if the Time Lords had not sent me, you would not have followed me-"

"And the Daleks would have risen from here and gone on to destroy all life in the Universe. But now we are here, and the Daleks shall learn from us and we from them. It will be interesting to see how they finally turn out, don't you think?" She blinked innocently.

The Doctor laughed. "Ha! The Time Lords and their talk of non-interference, and when they finally try it, they muck it up! How I'm going to laugh in their faces!" Then he seemed to pull himself together. "What about the Time Ring?"

Security Liaison smiled more naturally this time. "That is the true Time Ring, there on your arm. It's not the sort of  artefact  we care to tamper with. My apologies for the deception."

The Doctor reached up his sleeve, and pulled out the Ring. He looked at it, and then up at the dark figure sitting over them.

"I don't believe that bit about following the transmat beam, you know," he said, brows lowered. "I think someone sent you. I think you were tipped off.  How else would you recognise what the Time Ring was, even down to knowing its name?  And I will find out who did it, someday." His voice was suddenly sharp with menace.

Security Liaison thought to herself that it would be quite a shock to the Doctor if he ever did find out who had sent them. Aloud she said, "What is done is done, Doctor. You and your companions should leave now, and not plan on revisiting Skaro. We, the Daleks and the Kaleds and the Thals and the Reflectionists, we have work to do, great and grand works, and your interference is not welcome." She drew her head back into her hood, and sat silently.

The Doctor gestured his companions closer. "All hands on the Time Ring," he said, and held it out. Harry and Sarah grasped the band of metal, and all three of them immediately felt a spinning, churning sensation, as though the world was whirling round and round them.

"But have we done what we came here to do?" said Sarah, half-shouting as she felt Skaro start to fade away.

The Doctor's reply seemed to echo, as the three of them whirled through space. "I don't know, Sarah. I don't know if good or evil will come of this. Only Time will tell." And they were gone.

 

* * *

 

Back on Skaro, Security Liaison pushed back her hood and looked up into the empty sky. In the very  centre of her was pain: a burning hole where half her soul had been. Everything else in her, everything that was not that emptiness or that pain, wanted to run back to the Kaled Bunker, to throw herself between Nyder and his fate. But it would do no good. No good at all. It was too late already. 

Her lower lip trembled as she held back tears. She had good news for her sisters, a clever way to find a new copy of the Reflection. All was well: with the Kaleds, with Davros, with the Daleks. Even with the Thals. She should remember that. She should focus on their happiness, and how much greater and more important it was than the miserable death of one Kaled sociopath, who was beyond all saving. But she wanted to save him. She did.

She had thought of so many clever arguments, so many reasons why he should be allowed to live, but the decision of the many had been final.

Deep inside her mind, where she did not share her thoughts with her sisters, she had made plans, traitorous plans. She had even cast covetous thoughts upon the Time Ring itself. It was unlikely to have been keyed specifically to all three of the travellers, because if one or both of the Doctor's companions died, the Time Lords would not want to strand their agent here. It was probably meant for three: the Doctor, and two others.

Rather than the Doctor, Sarah Jane and Harry leaving Skaro, perhaps it could have been the Doctor, Nyder and herself. But what then? She knew that the Time Ring would take them to the TARDIS, but she was doubtful that Nyder, even with her help, would be able to wrest control of that fabulous time-travelling machine from the Doctor. Even if they did, wouldn't Nyder insist on returning to Skaro, to give this device to his master? The Reflectionists would be waiting for him. No, it would not have worked. There was no way she could save him.

She would have given herself, her life and more, to save him. She wanted to save him.

She had wanted to save him. Past tense. Nyder was past all saving now.

Despite that, she whispered to herself, "There are so many devils, let there be one more!"

 

* * *

In the holding cell, they had brought Commander Nyder hot water, a razor, and a comb. Plus his boots, a fresh uniform, and his medal. Everything a soldier would need for a formal occasion. Like his execution.

Nyder had carefully dressed, shaved himself scrupulously and combed his hair. He'd even spared a bit of hot water to bring his boots to the closest he could get to a gloss. He would show these scum how a member of the Elite went to his death - with nobility.

This of course had not prevented him from disassembling the razor and attempting an assault on the guard who came for him; the guard had not come alone, and Nyder was bundled out of his cell still a prisoner.

They led him through the Bunker, handcuffed. At every turn he expected to be met by a pack of women, needles and teeth bared. He remembered how they had torn apart Nenno, one bit at a time, as he screamed and screamed: what would they do to someone who had actually killed one of them? But he was taken through the Bunker and out the main entrance without incident.

Outside, there was a platform of stone and iron bars, which Nyder didn't like the looks of at all. And next to it, sitting on an undressed stone block, was a familiar woman with long black hair, wearing a heavy red robe and looking through a box of papers. As the guards and their prisoner came up, she turned to look at Nyder.

She had no face.

She nodded at the guards, and they seated Nyder on a stone block across from her and withdrew. Nyder looked again; the woman wore a smooth red mask of either cloth or wire mesh that covered her face completely, leaving an unsettling blank without eye or mouth holes.

"Security Liaison?" he guessed. Behind them both, the guards were opening up boxes of papers and dumping them over the structure, onto a grid of heavy pipes that was held up by the stone sides.

"No, we have not met. My title is Executioner."

Nyder paused, then recovered. "And what is this?" he said with most of his usual hauteur, while gesturing to the papers with his bound hands.

"Well, this is the collection of records of all the people you've had interrogated, tortured and killed over the years. It's quite a pile of paper and to be honest, Commander Nyder, I hate to waste it - I'd rather recycle it. But instead we're going to set it on fire. And throw you in."

Executioner picked up the box of papers beside her and shook it over the side of the firepit. The layer of papers was almost a third of a metre thick in places, supported by the iron bars. While the guards prodded the papers into an even layer with long metal poles, the woman rose and stood between them and Nyder, looking down at him. He stared straight ahead as he spoke, not even bothering to try and catch the eyes of the guards and see if they would help him.

"I always thought there would be people…a public trial, crowds at my execution. Standing at Davros' side through the worst that the universe could throw at him. Something spectacular, something magnificent…"

The woman in the mask shrugged. "You owe us a death; we are here to collect it. That's all. And this way, your memories die with you."

Data retrieval from a charred skull was apparently beyond even the Reflectionists' skills. Nyder tried to decide if that was bad or good. He found that he could not. He'd been willing to die, once, to keep his self intact. Now that death was here, he thought it didn't really matter if there would be some copy of him who went on afterwards - or not. He had gone through too much, too fast: he felt like he had already burned out everything that was left in him.

Executioner leaned down and picked up a small beaker of colourless fluid. Nyder could have smashed her down and made a break for it; instead he just kept looking ahead. Standing now, she grabbed Nyder's chin and forced him to look up at her masked face. Once she was certain she had his attention, Executioner held up the beaker.

"This is nyarenta. If you drink it now, you won't feel the flames. I promise."

Nyder just stared at her.

"Do you want it?" she demanded.

"Did Davros order you to give me that?" he demanded in reply.

"No," she said. And waited.

And at last, Nyder bent his head. He gestured for the glass, his throat suddenly too thick to speak.

His hands fumbled until she held the glass to his lips. He swallowed the last, and she tossed the beaker over her shoulder; it rolled over the papers, then through the grating to where torches were even now setting the papers alight. The tinkle of the breaking glass could be heard over the growing ruffling of flames.

The guards came for Nyder then, and he stood, the drug already making his limbs go numb. But they wouldn't have to drag him, he swore to himself; he'd walk on his own two feet. And he would not scream.

"Goodbye," Executioner said.

Nyder was cold as the guards removed his handcuffs; he was grateful for the cold.

"Face up or face down?" asked one guard.

"Face up," came a woman's voice, from far away. The guards casually picked Nyder up by waist and shoulder and heaved him onto the burning pile of paper.

Nyder stared up at the sky and felt the faint sting of a flame as it licked past his ear, then nothing. The faces of his victims stared up at the sky along with him, pictures of broken faces, scared faces, dead faces, his face. The sky seemed very bright now, and the air thick. The cold was creeping in, freezing his heart and his spine and his marrow and the sky was all light now. He tried to close his eyes, to move, but there was nothing, no eyes, no . body . . . nothing . . . . but . . . . . .light . . . . . . . .

Executioner was watching from the edge of the firepit. Carefully holding the edge of her robe out of the flames, she waved her red-gloved hand in front of the Commander's still face; there was no reaction. She told the guards, "All right, pull him out now."

The guards efficiently used their long metal poles to shove the prisoner into reach and then out of the fire. There really wasn't much damage done; he'd been lying on the thickest part of the papers, and had little more than scorches. After his  smouldering hair was roughly blotted with a wet towel, the guards looked to Executioner for instructions.

She put her head to Nyder's chest and listened to the thumping of his heart for a moment. "Take him to the Dome. Make certain that no one sees him."

Commander Nyder was rolled drugged and unconscious onto a stretcher. A gas mask was clapped over his face to disguise him, and a rain cloak draped over his slack limbs. No glorious trial, and not even a glorious death for him: there was work that he might be needed for, that's all.

They took him away. Executioner stayed behind, absently stirring the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There are so many devils" - Security Liaison is quoting the story 'Teibele and Her Demon' by Isaac Bashevis Singer.  
> Thank to the cast, crew, & creators of the original "Genesis of the Daleks" for creating a classic and inspirational episode!   
> I should apologise to the hypothetical BBC budgeting office; any monies I might have saved by not building the Thal rocket set (from the original programme) have been more than swallowed up by this story's length (Eight episodes? Ten?). In my defence, I point out that with the judicious use of gas masks, dark shadows and reverse angles, all of the Reflectionist roles (female) can be covered by one actress, plus several body doubles of the same height and build wearing suitable wigs.   
> (Although that one actress had better have vocal cords of brass, as she will be looping a lot of dialogue!)


End file.
